


The Price of Freedom

by the-wandering-whumper (water4willows)



Category: White Collar
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Broken Arms, Broken Bones, Captivity, False Accusations, Fever, Flashbacks, Framed, Gen, Hospital, Hurt Neal Caffrey, Illness, Infection, Interrogation, Intubation, Kidnapped, Malnourishment, Medical Procedures, Nightmares, PTSD, Pneumonia, Strangled, Tortured, Whump, beaten, broken faces, broken peter over the broken neal parts, bronchitis, cut anklet, drugged, false inprisonment, horrible prison conditions, i basically put him through hell ok?, jumping off bridges, mentions 9/11, slightly AU, this story gets very dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:26:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 29
Words: 102,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26200054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/water4willows/pseuds/the-wandering-whumper
Summary: He thought he had it all: a good job, a nice place to live, his freedom... kinda.  But when an unknown foe from the past enters his life, Neal Caffrey must fall back on every trick he's learned just to stay alive.  Only thing is, Peter has no idea where he is and Neal is running out of time.
Comments: 235
Kudos: 189





	1. And So It Begins

**Author's Note:**

> First off, a huge, enormous thank you to my beta Jo (fyeahvulnerablemen) who was with me every step of the way on this monster. Who encouraged me and offered her constructive criticism, even when it was difficult. This fic would not exist with her. A big thanks to all my Tumblr friends who stepped up and got me prison info when I couldn't find it on my own. And, of course, the beautiful people in the Med-Time channel of the Whump Discord who gave me priceless medical info and answered all my stupid questions. And finally to bromanceandships for her razor sharp medical knowledge and help with all the details. Thank you all.
> 
> This work was inspired by Trust and Verify by Rainey13 (https://www.fanfiction.net/s/6927061/1/Trust-and-Verify)

_“But man is not made for defeat. A man can be destroyed but not defeated.” - Ernest Hemmingway_

“How much longer do you think he’ll be?” Neal Caffrey forced his eyes away from the window and shrugged. The man who had addressed him, Jack, let out an irritated sigh.

“Kurt said he’d be no later than ten after,” someone else pointed out and Neal looked down at his watch. It was half past.

“You don’t think he’d…” yet another voice piped up, but the speaker snapped their mouth shut as soon as Joe, the most senior member of their crew, leveled him with a dangerous glare. 

“If Kurt said he’s gonna be here,” came the growled reply, “then he’ll be here.” 

Benny, the only one who had been brave enough to voice what they’d all been thinking for the last 15 minutes, snapped his mouth shut and ducked his head in apology.

“Why don’t we just try calling him again?” Neal suggested, and suddenly those cold, untrusting eyes of Joe’s were turned on him.

“Why don’t _you_ just go back to keeping watch, Miller.” Under normal circumstances, an order like that might’ve ruffled Neal’s tailfeathers a bit, and possibly drawn a sharp retort out of him, but today he held his tongue. Today was not the day to push Joe’s buttons, or make any kind of waves for that matter. For one, Joe had never particularly warmed to Neal’s current undercover persona, Elias Miller - a fact that still irked him. And second, he couldn’t afford to stoke his distrust right now. Not when there was so much riding on today.

Feigning indifference, Neal sniffed and went back to staring out his window. Someone had painted the storage facility’s name and logo across the glass in crudely painted white letters, but he still had a relatively good view of the street. He peered out between the store hours and let himself check one final time that the rusty old Ford Tempo Jones had picked out from the FBI impound was still idling there down the street. Or that the white panel vans holding a battalion of FBI agents and SWAT team members were still in their agreed upon positions up the block. They were, and Neal tried to release some of the tension from his neck and shoulders. Everything was going according to plan. His plan. Because this was his baby, his op, his shining moment, and his chance to prove to the FBI once and for all that he was an asset they could not afford to lose. All that was missing to round out this entire plan and bring it to a close, was Kurt Forsythe.

Neal tried not to frown as memories of how difficult it had been to infiltrate Kurt’s crew came back to him. Countless undercover agents had disappeared over the years trying to do what Neal had done, but it hadn’t been easy. It had taken almost every trick in his book to gain the man’s trust, and in the end, it wasn’t even Neal who had convinced Forsythe to give him a chance. It was Kurt’s younger brother Jimmy, who had taken an instant liking to Elias Miller. They’d become friends and it was only then that Kurt, art thief extraordinaire, had allowed Neal to join his crew. He’d gotten in, but as Joe’s reaction to him earlier proved, there were still guys on the team that didn’t trust him.

 _Not that it matters,_ Neal reminded himself. After today all of this would be over. Kurt Forsythe would be behind bars, and Neal and Peter would be popping open a bottle of bubbly together at Junes. Maybe they would even invite Mozzie who had posed as a fence for the op. He just hoped this win for the good guys would be enough...

Neal resisted the urge to check his watch yet again and instead glanced around at the men who had been his near constant companions for the past several months. He was struck - and not for the first time - by how ironic it was that the government was essentially allowing him to do all of the things they had thrown him in jail for in the first place. That he had been given his freedom, a second chance at life, and free reign to get up to as much trouble as he wanted to, so long as the FBI got all the credit, and that pretty little conviction rating stayed up there at 93%.

Ninety. Three. Percent. Neal took a moment to savor those words. It _felt_ astronomical - people kept telling him as much - so why were his motives still constantly being questioned?

 _“You know why,”_ that tiny little voice inside his head reminded him, and Neal felt the wind leave his sails.

He thought back on this morning. How the team had been assembling in a parking garage not far from here to go over the last minute details of today’s mission. Peter had been late, which was unusual in itself, and his arrival didn’t improve matters much. The agent had stormed in, eyes dark and face drawn, and had pulled Jones aside without even a glance in Neal’s direction. They were out of earshot and Neal was too preoccupied with going over some plans with one of the guys from Organized Crime to eavesdrop. A moment later, however, he got his answer. Peter addressed the group and informed them all that he would not be accompanying them on the mission.

“You’re not coming with us?” Neal had asked, ambushing the agent as soon as he was done speaking.

“I can’t Neal. The DOJ sent a representative over to do a review of… some of our files, and I have to stay behind and help him.”

Neal regarded his handler. “A review of all _my_ files, you mean,” he muttered, picking up instantly on what Peter wasn’t saying. “This is the second time in six months. Why are they back?”

“I don’t know, Neal.”

“Well, should I be worried?”

“Of course not. Jones will be running point and he knows the ins and outs of this op almost as well as you.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Let me worry about the DOJ, Neal. You just focus on making sure this joint op goes off without a hitch.”

The conversation had taken place hours ago, but the bad taste it had left in Neal’s mouth was still there. He’d tried to get more information out of Jones but the agent was just as clueless as he was. All they had to go on was the strong sense of levity Peter seemed to put on the situation. And now an op that was supposed to bolster his career had suddenly turned into what felt like a life or death situation, and Neal didn’t particularly care for that caged-animal feel. The last thing he needed was to be worried about whether or not the DOJ was here to shut down his work with White Collar, or worse yet, send him back to prison.

The only person who deserved to go to prison in this scenario, was Kurt Forsythe. He was the one who had been leaving a trail of death and destruction in his wake as he theived his way across the lower 48. Perhaps taking him down would finally get the DOJ off his back. 

Assuming, of course, that Kurt even bothered to show up.

Neal went back to staring out his window again as Benny and the rest of the crew shifted in their seats. Kurt was late and the natives were getting restless; nervous and probably worrying about the same thing as Neal, that Kurt had taken the heist money and run. Forsythe didn’t strike him as the kind of man who would double cross his crew, but you never knew with people like him. But this entire op was hinging on Neal getting Kurt, the money and every member of the crew into the same building, and then the FBI could descend. Anticipation was like an animal clawing at his insides as he kept watch.

As they waited, Neal’s thoughts drifted over to Jimmy again, and the dread he was feeling over his impending betrayal. Joe and Kurt would just hate him, but Jimmy… He was only 19 years old and so much like Neal, he’d had to remind himself on several occasions during the job that he was not there to teach the kid the ropes. He was there to take down a criminal organization, though he’d tried his damndest to make sure Jimmy wasn’t a part of that organization. 

Neal had tried everything, from talking him out of it outright to constantly reminding the kid about his dreams of going to college. At one point he’d even approached Kurt about forbidding Jimmy to go, but the man had just laughed at him and told him the kid needed to earn his stripes. So in the end Jimmy, who completely idolized his older brother, had chosen stupidity and blind family loyalty over common sense. And there wasn’t much Neal could do about stupidity. It was such a shame really. With one bad decision, the kid had thrown away his entire future, and Neal wasn’t sure how he’d take that look of betrayal that kid would inevitably give him once all this was over. Neal had even tried pulling on his Peter pants to reach Jimmy in the end. But it was no use. In less than an hour Elias Miller would be revealed as the traitorous FBI informant Joe probably already thought he was, and Jimmy would get thrown into the back of the same SWAT van as his brother. It really was such a shame.

* * *

When Kurt finally pulled up in front of the storage facility a few minutes later in the ancient Jeep Grand Cherokee he always drove, the relief amongst the waiting men was palpable. They all sprang from their seats and greeted their boss with relieved smiles as he breezed into the foyer. A blast of cold winter air followed him in and Neal had to resist the urge to cough. The bronchitis he was still getting over kept trying to make a reappearance. Jimmy followed along in his brother’s wake and shot Neal a shiteating grin as soon as they locked eyes. He proudly showed off the fact that Kurt had allowed him to carry in the duffle bags full of money, and Neal gave him an enthusiastic thumbs up back, despite the fact a little bit of his soul died as he did it.

Kurt Forsythe was an imposing man, topping the scales at an impressive 300 that was all muscle on his 6’7’ frame. The atmosphere in the storage facility’s foyer had completely changed as he took the duffle’s from Jimmy and set them on the counter. He towered over the men all elbowing their way in to get a better look - a criminal mastermind lording over his lowly minions. He unzipped the first bag with relish, a smug smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Neal couldn’t wait to wipe it right off his face.

And he didn’t have to wait long. 

After confirming the money really was in the bags, Neal muttered the agreed upon codeword into the coms and then all hell broke loose. SWAT descended and at the first sounds of FBI FREEZE! the criminals scattered into the back of the storage facility like rats. Neal almost followed them, but made himself hang back. The original plan had been for him to get arrested right along with the rest of the crew, but the arrival of the DOJ representative back at White Collar this morning had thrown a wrench in those plans. Neal was still kind of salty about that. A lot of careful planning and backstopping had gone into Elias Miller, not to mention a lot of creativity on his part. The fact that he would have to retire him so quickly irritated him to no end.

So Neal stayed where he was and watched as countless FBI agents and heavily armed SWAT officers poured into the building. Some of them stopped to congratulate him. Others simply clapped him on the back as they passed, smiling their praises from behind their aviators. A plain clothed Jones was the last to arrive several minutes later, still brandishing his weapon.

“That’s it,” the agent announced, holstering the gun. “SWAT just secured the last of them. It’s over.” Neal smiled, having just received the same information over his own coms. And yet, the victory still felt hollow.

“Do you think it will be enough?”

Jones’ brow crinkled in confusion for a moment before realization finally dawned. “You’re not still worried about that DOJ guy are you? Caffrey, I told you, I’m sure this is nothing more than a routine visit.”

“Two months after the last one?” Neal replied skeptically. 

Jones shrugged. “You’ve got nothing to worry about. And besides, the DOJ isn’t going to have anything to say once we get back and I tell them what a badass you were today.”

“Why Clinton Jones,” Neal said with a smile, “was that a _compliment_ you just gave me?”

“Contrary to popular belief, I do give them out from time to time.”

“But not to me!”

“That’s only because you’ve never done anything to impress me, Caffrey.”

“Oh you wound me, Clinton,” Neal said, placing a hand over his heart. “After all these years of working together and closing cases, and this is the first time I’ve impressed you? How will I ever keep going?”

“I’m sure you’ll find a way,” Jones replied with a hint of mischief in his eyes. “But call me Clinton one more time and your chances will decrease exponentially.”

“Promise me you’ll come back to the office and sing my praises to that DOJ guy and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

“Done,” Jones laughed, shaking the hand Neal held out to him. The small moment filled Neal with something unexpected, a contentment of sorts, and a feeling he was still trying to get used to. People like Peter and Jones, they were different from the criminals he’d grown up around. They stayed. He could rely on them. They had his back in times of crisis. If he had to go back to prison, how would he ever manage without them? 

Probably the same way he always had, though the hole they left behind in his life would be hard to ignore.

This moment of contentment was short lived, however, as two FBI agents chose that exact moment to drag a loudly protesting Jimmy Forythe back into the foyer from the rear of the storage facility. The young man’s eyes immediately fell on Jones' and Neal’s clasped hands, and then up to the smiles they had been unable to wipe from their faces in time.

Neal let go of Jones’ hand and took a step back, but the damage had already been done.

“E-Elias?” the young man stammered, sounding all of his 19 years.

Neal watched sadly as the surprise and confusion on Jimmy’s face quickly morphed into anger and betrayal. It was as bad as he had expected.

“You’re working with them?” Jimmy spat, fighting against the hold the agents still had on him. “How could you? Kurt trusted you. _I_ trusted you!

"How could you?"

The FBI agents wrangled the cursing Jimmy outside onto the street, but his words lingered in foyer long after the front door closed behind them. Neal felt all his earlier elation drain away.

“Maybe I should…” he started, but Jones seemed to already know what he was going to say. He procured a set of keys from somewhere on his person and held them out to Neal. “Wait for me in the car. As soon as we’re finished up here, I’ll drive you back to the office.” But before Neal could take the keys, the agent drew his hand back.

“There’s nothing you could have done for that kid, Caffrey,” he said seriously. “So there’s no sense in beating yourself up over it.”

Anger flared in Neal’s chest for the briefest of moments, but he let it die just as quickly as it had flamed. Jones was right. He didn’t owe Jimmy Forsythe anything, and he sure as hell wasn’t responsible for the kid’s decisions. He’d done everything he could to give Jimmy a way out, but the kid had turned him down time and time again. He’d made his bed, and now he had to lie in it.

Jones held out the keys to him again and this time, Neal took them. He pushed out into the cold, suppressed the urge to cough yet again, and made a beeline for Jones’ shitty Ford Tempo still parked up the seat. The car promised warmth, but Neal found himself bypassing the car entirely as he headed for a pedestrian footpath he spotted to his left that ran along the East River. The cars traveling over the FDR overpass thundered above his head, but he tuned them out and focused instead on the sounds of the river churning away beneath his feet. The city was in the middle of a cold snap and there were chunks of ice bobbing away in the water as Neal peered over the railing and down into the murky brown waters of the East River. 

Winters were usually mild in the Big Apple. He liked that about New York City. But lately it had been nothing but grey skies and impossibly cold temperatures. The frigid air froze his breath and did little to help his still healing lungs, but Neal didn’t have the energy to be irritated by it today. Besides, it gave him something else to worry about, something that didn’t involve impromptu DOJ visits or the prospect of being sent back to prison.

Neal glanced over his shoulder and back at the storage facility across the street. South Street, which had been empty only an hour ago, was now choked with government vehicles, their dash lights flashing and coloring the bricks of the surrounding buildings, doing little to cheer up their forlorn facades. Winter had leached all charm from the landscape and everything felt dead and brown. Kurt Forsythe appeared on the sidewalk and Neal watched with some satisfaction as the SWAT team members forced him into the back of one of their vans. Vindication flooded his system, warming him a little from the inside. He was responsible for that, for getting a dangerous criminal off the street. Surely that would be enough for the DOJ.

Mood crushed yet again by thoughts of his impending doom, Neal turned back to the pitiful sight of a frozen Brooklyn skyline. Grimey boats sat marooned in dirty harbors, the brown water of the river doing nothing to improve the view. And yet, Neal could see it for it’s potential and imagined this would be a pretty picturesque spot in the summertime, if he could get over the sound of the thundering traffic on the overpass above his head. He suspected a lot of runners used this space. It had beautiful views and lots of planters that would be bursting with flowers come spring. He would have to come back here when it was warmer, bring his sketchbook and trace Brooklyn under better light. This area was still in his anklet’s recently expanded radius, or so he had discovered when he’d been allowed to go on this particular mission without the accompaniment of several unhappy US Marshals.

But thinking of angry US Marshals only managed to remind him of what was waiting for him back at White Collar. 

Neal rested his hands on the frigid railing separating sidewalk from river and sighed into the wind. Two years he’d been working with the FBI and they still didn’t trust him. Granted, he had gotten into a few scrapes, and pulled some seriously dubious stunts right under Peter’s nose, but he’d always been careful. Always made sure not to leave any evidence behind and to convince Peter that he really hadn’t done anything wrong in the first place. But maybe that hadn’t worked as well as he thought. Something had brought the DOJ here today, and the not knowing was the worst part. Did he screw up? Had someone narked on him? It was impossible to tell. And then there was the fact that, looking under the right microscope, anyone could poke holes in the things he did. Question was, was it enough to put him away for good and throw away the key?

Neal shivered and finally gave in to the need to cough. It was a deep, chest rattling kind of sound that left him winded. That was how Jones found him several minutes later.

“Nice view,” the agent said, coming up to stand beside Neal. He passed him a tissue which Neal took with a grateful grimace.

“It’s got potential. I think I might come back here with my sketchbook in the summer.”

“The office could use some more of your work. If Hughes puts up one more motivational poster of kittens or eagles, I think I may vomit.”

“They are pretty terrible,” Neal replied with a laugh. It was an unusual conversation for the two of them to be having. Jones usually wasn’t this open and talkative with him. The agent seemed to realize the strangeness of it too and cleared his throat, turning serious.

“You ready to head back?”

“To my witch hunt you mean? Sure, why not.”

“It’s not a witch hunt, Caffrey. The DOJ is just weird about things like this.”

“You mean showing up unannounced for impromptu visits is something they do on a regular basis?”

Jones shrugged a shoulder, “You're a convicted felon.”

“Well don’t sugar coat it or anything!”

“I’m not saying it to be rude,” the agent explained. “It’s just the god’s honest truth. You’re a convicted felon working high profile cases with the FBI. They’re nervous. They want to protect their asses in case you go off the reservation or something.”

“But haven’t I proven to them already that they can trust me?”

“You’ve convinced Peter. That’s half the battle right there. And give the man some credit, Caffrey. Burke knows how to handle these things. This isn’t his first rodeo. He’s going to have your back.”

“He’s going to be so pissed off that he missed this.”

“Yeah he is,” Jones agreed with a chuckle. “I can’t wait to tell him all about it.”

Neal smiled back, hiding it with a hand when he started coughing again.

“You know, you really should get that looked at,” Jones said.

Neal wiped his dripping nose with the tissue Jones had given him earlier. “I already did. The doc said it’s bronchitis and gave me some antibiotics. I just gotta ride it out.”

“Well don’t sneeze all over the car on the way back to the office.”

“Oh, right, because it's in such pristine shape already,” Neal replied with a wink.

“It got the job done didn’t it?”

“That it did. Forsythe didn’t suspect a thing.”

“That’s why they pay me the big bucks.”

“Yeah, ok Mr. Trump. Whatever you say.”

Jones cracked a smile then quickly soberred. “You ready for this?”

Neal glanced back over his shoulder. The street that had once been teeming with government vehicles was now almost empty. Life was going back to normal and Neal figured it was about time his did as well. He pulled his gloves back on and turned to Jones.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.” 


	2. Vultures Everywhere

Peter Burke leaned against the glass wall of the conference room with arms folded across his chest and tried to mask his impatience. A tall, slightly balding man with a shock of very recently dyed jet black hair, sat at the oblong table, painstakingly combing over case files one page at a time. The man had been at it for hours, pausing only to sip at an hour’s old cup of tepid coffee and push his thick, wire-rimmed glasses back up his oily nose with a middle finger. Hughes was in a similar stance across the room, both he and Peter having long ago abandoned their chairs out of boredom, but neither having the courage to brazenly walk out of the room. The man seated at the table between them had the ability to derail all of the work White Collar had been doing over the course of the last few years, and he knew it. He’d made that perfectly clear when he stormed into their offices this morning, demanded every case file involving Neal Caffrey, and ordered them all into the conference room. He’d arrived flanked on either side by US Marshals and a band of nervous looking analysts. Peter and Hughes had already infuriated the man by sending Neal out in the field today, they couldn’t risk making matters any worse by being anything but cordial.

Peter risked a glance over at Reese Hughes and discretely rolled his eyes. The man between them was named Robert Leech and he was from the Department of Justice. He also just happened to be a former director of the White Collar division and there were still some within the ranks who jokingly called him The Angel of Death. Visits from Robert Leech meant personnel changes, restructuring, Department of Professional Responsibility investigations, and career ending indictments. He had the power to upend Peter’s entire world, and flaunted that power every chance he got. He exuded arrogance, demanded loyalty and respect but did nothing to earn it. He was the kind of person who was used to getting everything he wanted handed to him on a silver platter, and refusing him was tantamount to professional suicide, or so he liked people to believe. Peter knew the man had superiors, just like he did. The question was, was Leech the sole crusader on this ridiculous quest, or was someone even higher up than him pulling the strings? Whatever the reason for his visit today, he had now apparently turned his attentions to the White Collar Division. Or, more specifically, to Neal. 

But was that what was really going on here, or just a product of Peter’s incredible boredom?

Peter glanced down at his watch. With any luck, Neal and Jones would have completed their raid and be headed back now. He would never admit it out loud, but he was secretly hoping that the team would return triumphant so he could rub it right into Leech’s oily face. 

“Am I boring you, Agent Burke?” a nasally voice asked from the conference table and Peter jerked his head back up. Leech hadn’t moved an inch. He was still bent over the same page he’d been scrutinizing for the past ten minutes.

“Not at all,” he replied, clearing his throat when his voice cracked from disuse. “I was just wondering if there was anything I could get you. Some lunch perhaps, or a fresh cup of coffee.”

Leech looked up at Peter from over the rim of his glasses which had once again fallen down his nose. He pushed them back up with a finger. “No, I’m fine, Agent Burke. But perhaps you could do one thing for me.”

“Anything, Sir.”

“You can start by telling me what possessed you to allow your asset, a convicted felon, to throw an extravagant party, on the FBI’s dime, on top of a Manhattan highrise.” 

So they were going to start from the very beginning, were they? This was going to be the longest day of Peter Burke’s life.

Leech made a jerking movement under the conference table and the chair in front of Peter slid out a few inches. 

He took the chair without comment. Peter was used to men like Leech. Hughes was too. It was just a game with them, much like the ops they ran out of the White Collar division all the time. It would take time and a whole hell of a lot of patience, but Peter could navigate these waters and come out on the other side unscathed. Their work spoke for itself. A 93% conviction rate couldn’t be muddied by lapses in procedure and Neal’s sometimes questionable methods. He would take whatever Leech decided to throw at him and trust that the system, and the department, wouldn’t fail him.

“Tell me about the… Ghovat case.” Peter resisted the urge to roll his eyes when Leech completely butchered the name.

“What do you want to know?”

“Why it was necessary for Mr. Caffrey to spend $100,000 to throw a party.” Leech answered, his voice monotone and his eyes emotionless. He was a hard man to read, and not one to mince words, apparently. It put Peter on edge.

“Well, our office was approached by a model named Tara who had information on a man we’d been chasing for quite some time. I assume you’ve heard of ‘The Ghost’?” Peter paused, allowing the man some time to answer. But he just kept staring, so Peter went on.

“We needed a way to draw him out and Caffrey came up with the idea to throw a party.”

“Do you often allow your criminal informants to dictate how you run your investigations?” Leech asked, adding emphasis on the criminal part of Neal’s official title, and Peter did his best to keep his cool and his face impassive.

“No, but he is also my asset, and as such, I take his recommendations very seriously.”

“I see. And his recommendation was to spend FBI money on a lavish party that ended in an altercation and then finally the hospitalization of two federal agents?”

Peter clenched his jaw. “It also led to the arrest of one of the most elusive criminals on the planet.”

“After which you made a request for a copy of prison surveillance video of your CI and a female visitor he had. Is that correct?”

Peter was a bit taken aback. Leech must have gone to an awful lot of trouble to track his movements so thoroughly. Not to mention back to a case that had happened over three years ago. Thankfully, while his reasons for requesting the footage didn’t look the best for Peter, it didn’t implicate Neal in any way either.

“Why was that, Agent Burke?”

“Caffrey asked to see the tapes. Since he had done such a good job on the Ghovat case, I allowed it.”

“Your definition of good being a tremendous waste of Bureau resources and two agents in the hospital?” 

Peter tried not to react, his jaw beginning to ache from all the clenching it was doing. “We took down Ghovat.”

“I see.” Leech said again and jotted something down in the notebook he apparently used in lieu of a laptop. “Let’s move on then, shall we? Tell me about the bible.”

“It was a Book of Hours, actually.” Peter corrected and Hughes coughed into his hand to hide a laugh. Leech looked up, his face once again unreadable.

“Let’s see about getting some water in here. I can see we’re going to be here awhile.” Leech raised an arm and beckoned to one of Peter’s agents who had been stationed outside the conference room should any of its current occupants require anything. Agent Hanna Reed pushed into the room looking nervous. She was relatively new to White Collar, having only been assigned to them for a week while Diana was out on vacation. While Reed was doing a phenomenal job, Peter found himself desperately missing Diana. He could have used her sharp wit and acid tongue today dealing with Leech. If she would have even let Peter keep her here and not on the op with Neal and Jones.

“Did you need something sir?” Reed asked, popping her head in through the door.

“A pitcher of water, if you please, young lady. And perhaps a cough drop or two for Director Hughes. He apparently has a cough.”

“Um, sure thing.”

Reed glanced over at Peter who offered the young agent a nod of approval. “Get Mr. Leech whatever he requires.”

“Right away, sir.”

“Now that we have that taken care of,” Leech began as soon as Hanna left the room, “let's continue, shall well?”

“Yes lets,” Peter agreed with forced enthusiasm. The fake smile he plastered on his face might have been too much though, judging by the way Leech was looking at him now. 

Peter sighed. “What do you want to know?”

* * *

One file and several hours later, Peter once again glanced down at his watch and wondered what in the hell could be taking Neal and Jones so long. He’d not been allowed to bring his cellphone into the conference room so he couldn’t even check to see if Jones had texted. Leech was apparently as old school as you could get and had forbidden anyone from bringing their devices into the meeting. Even Hughes had been ordered to leave his phone at his desk, giving Peter a stern look when he’d started to suggest they protest. Their only contact with the outside world came in the form of Agent Reed who was doing her best to keep Leech happy and run his ridiculous errands. Which so far included getting water, refilling Leech’s coffee cup, making copies, and finding some lunch menus. Those menus sat in an enticing pile at the end of the conference table and Peter’s stomach grumbled just looking at them.

“Is Mr. Caffrey planning on joining us at all today, Agent Burke?” Leech asked after one particularly audible grumble. “Or am I to take his tardiness as a sign that he is not taking these proceedings seriously?”

_ Proceedings. _ Peter nearly snorted at that. These weren’t proceedings, this was a witch hunt, pure and simple, and Leech had made that perfectly clear by the type of questions he was asking. Every excuse Peter gave for why they had to go off book in nearly every case they’d gone over was meticulously written down in that stupid little notebook of his. He also watched Peter like a hawk and clicked his tongue every time Peter said anything even remotely untoward. He constantly fixated on the circumstantial and it was starting to drive Peter a little mad. And make him a little nervous, if he was being honest. The devil was in the details with men like Leech, and he was picking apart every answer Peter gave with ease. The fact Neal and Jones had yet to arrive was only complicating matters. 

“Why don’t we take a break and I can go check in with my lead agent?” Peter suggested.

Leech pursed his lips. “Do you often send your junior agents out in the field alone on such high profile cases?”

Peter seethed internally. That ‘high profile case’ was one Leech would have gladly had them scrap this morning so that Neal could be here for his “review.” It was this insufferable man’s fault Jones was out there on his own at all. Not that Peter was worried about him. He trusted his agent. And more importantly, he trusted him with Neal.

“Robert, Agent Jones is one of our finest,” Hughes answered for Peter, before he could open his mouth and say something he’d regret. “He’s more than qualified to lead this mission.”

“Then I’m confused as to why we are still waiting on him to arrive with your informant.”

Hughes was the only one standing. He walked over to a little console table beneath the conference room’s TV and picked up the large phone Leech had removed from the table to make room for his files. The director set the phone in front of the DOJ representative and replied, “Then why don’t we call him and find out?”

Leech looked annoyed but waved Hughes off dismissively. “Fine,” he said with exaggerated annoyance.

Peter pulled the phone towards him once Hughes indicated it was alright, and punched in a number he was pretty surprised he could remember without his cell. After several rings, Leech leaned over and hit the speakerphone button with a look over his glasses that dared Peter to protest. He wasn’t about to give the insufferable man the satisfaction and settled the receiver back into its cradle without comment. The sound of ringing filled the conference room and then Jones’ voicemail picked up. Peter tried a second time for good measure, but the call again went to voicemail. Leech was looking back down at his files again, barely able to contain the smug smile that was attempting to take over his face. It was the first hint of real emotion Peter had seen on the man all day.

“Do you have any idea where your people are right now, Agent Burke?” Condescension and superiority oozed out of the question like sludge.

For the first time that day, Peter didn’t have an answer.


	3. Like a Bridge Over Troubled Water

“I don’t think that’s going to make anyone go faster,” Neal said to Jones as the echo of the car horn faded from the interior of the car.

“Yeah, but it makes me feel better,” the agent muttered, returning a rather rude gesture back to another motorist. “Any luck?”

Neal glanced down at the cellphone he was holding in his hand and shook his head. There was no signal, hadn’t been one for the past 20 minutes. He’d even gone so far as rolling down the window and sticking his hand out, but it hadn’t worked. They were in one of those mysterious dead zones that dotted the city. An unfortunate byproduct of skyscrapers and traffic. Even Jones’ GPS was having difficulty and kept telling them to make a u-turn and start heading in the other direction. As if that was even an option in this traffic.

“Should I just get out and walk?” Neal suggested. “I could probably make it back to the office before you, or find a cab.” As if to punctuate his point the streetlight they’d been stuck under for the past 10 minutes changed from red to green for the 4th time. They’d barely moved an inch.

“Just stay put for now. We’re not technically late yet.”

“Alright,” Neal shrugged. “But you were the ones who told me today needed to go off without a hitch.”

The traffic was unexpected, Neal had to give Jones that. They’d not made it two blocks away from the storage facility before getting caught in the horrible snarl. Intersections as far as the eye could see were choked with drivers all vying for right of way and only managing to make things worse. This was a part of driving that Neal was never going to miss. He much preferred the towncars or pristinely maintained government vehicles he always got to ride around in, anyways. Jones’ shitty Ford Tempo was hardly one of those, but it was doing the job well enough. It was warm and he wasn’t driving. To distract himself, Neal switched on the radio to drown out all the honking just as Jones laid on his horn again. It didn’t help much - the honking or the radio - so he went back to trying to get a signal.

Neal would never have admitted it to Jones, but he was kind of glad they were stuck in traffic. It gave him time to think. He shot off one final text to Peter, hoping it would make its way through eventually, and settled back into his seat. Outside his window angry drivers screamed at each other from inside their cars and he tried to come up with a plan for how he would handle his impending meeting with the DOJ man. Every representative he’d dealt with before now had been ok in the end, though the process had left him drained. Today felt different though, and he wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was because Peter had appeared so ill at ease when he’d shown up for the raid this morning.

“Oh finally,” Jones breathed when traffic inched forward a bit and he was able to get them out of the middle of the intersection. He held out a hand for his phone and Neal obliged.

“You won’t get a signal,” he added. “I’ve been trying, believe me.”

“I know,” Jones said angrily, slamming the phone down into one of the cup holders. “I just don’t like being out of contact with the office.”

Neal could understand that. Today hadn’t just been his big day. Jones was under a lot of scrutiny himself. He’d just gone on his first big solo mission without Peter. And while the agent had killed it and the op went easy as pie, their ride back to the office was not. “I could still get a cab.”

“Lets just see how things go.”

Their prayers seemed to be answered a few minutes later when the cars began moving forward again. Jones picked up his phone to scrutinize the route the GPS was suggesting. He was so preoccupied with the task, he didn’t seem to realize that he’d started going in the wrong direction.

“No Jones! This isn’t the lane you want. This is going to take you to…” but it was too late. Jones had inadvertently put them on a course for Brooklyn, and one that would take them over the Brooklyn Bridge and in the exact opposite direction of where they wanted to go.

“Shit!” the agent exclaimed, craning his neck to see if it was possible to merge back over into the correct lane. But traffic was still thick and unmoving and there were too many cars honking at him from behind for him to wait there for space to open. Neal could see Jones had no choice but to keep heading for the bridge. 

“Well,” the agent said a moment later, “At least we’re moving.”

Neal was not amused and glared over at Jones from the passenger seat. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” He lifted up his pant leg and Jones swore under his breath. Any moment now the tracking anklet was going to sense that he was outside his radius and send alarm bells all the way up the FBI food chain. It was probably the worst thing in the world that could have happened in that moment.

Or perhaps the second worst thing. For just as the two men were watching the anklet’s light flip from green to red, something slammed into the back of their car. The force of the impact was enough to send the tiny little compact careening across several lanes of traffic. Jones white knuckled the steering wheel, trying desperately to get the car back under control, but it was no use. The Ford bounced off the side of the bridge a moment later, sending Neal’s head crashing into the glass of the passenger side window. 

Everything was pretty much a blur after that, just the sound of crunching metal and shattering glass. Then just as quickly as the ride had begun, it stopped. The Ford met something impenetrable and unyielding and it came to a sudden and unexpected halt. Neal was thrown forward. His knees impacted heavily with the dash as the whole front end of the car was smashed inwards. Somewhere far away, someone was laying on their horn. It was a horrible continuous wail that reverberated through his skull and made him feel sick. Neal pried his eyes open to yell at whomever was making that god awful noise and was shocked to find it was Jones. The agent was unconscious and his blood spattered face was resting against the steering wheel. Neal gently eased the agent back against his seat and the sound mercifully ceased. 

“Jones?” Neal asked, blinking away something wet that was dripping into his eyes and reaching over to check for a pulse. It was there, strong and steady beneath his fingers, but the agent did not respond. There was a huge gash just above his left eyebrow.

Neal shook him. “Jones!”

The car door beside him was wrenched open and several pairs of hands reached in to haul him out. Still dazed from the crash, Neal went willingly.

“My friend,” he pleaded as he was set on his feet. “You have to help my friend.” He turned to one of his rescuers and his eyes went wide. There were two of them, both dressed head to toe in black. One much shorter than the other. They were a long way from the good samaritans Neal was expecting. 

As if to prove the point, and before Neal could even open his mouth to ask what in the hell was going on, a fist drove up into his stomach, emptying his lungs of air. He wrapped his arms around his middle and went down hard. His assailants wasted no time stabbing something sharp into the side of his neck.

“What the hell?” he forced out, putting a hand over the injection site, but the two men just ignored him. They were working quickly and efficiently and even in his probably concussed - and now apparently drugged - state, Neal knew this had to be planned. 

“Fellas, let’s…” a boot flashed out, catching him in the side of the head and stealing all sense. He panted into the pavement, willing the world to stop spinning as the shorter of the two men knelt beside him and pressed the barrel of a gun to his temple.

“One more fucking word from you, and they’ll be cleaning your brains off this bridge for a week.” Neal did as he was told and watched helplessly as the 2nd man, the tall one, grabbed for his ankle. A moment later and his severed anklet was being tossed over the side of the bridge and into the East River. Neal watched it sail, taking with it all his hopes of having a way for the FBI to track him should all this go the way he imagined it would.

 _Shit._

This was not looking good. These two men obviously knew what they were doing, knew to go for the anklet if they didn’t want every single FBI agent and US Marshal in New York on their tail. And they would be. As soon as the anklet had been cut they would have started racing towards his current location. Maybe if he stalled long enough they’d get here in time.

“We gotta go man,” the taller of the two said nervously, glancing at his watch. It was as if he’d read Neal’s mind.

“I know,” the shorter one replied hotly. He grabbed Neal's hands and secured them with zip ties. In his haste, he failed to tighten them all the way. “Help me lift him up.”

Neal was unceremoniously hauled up onto unsteady feet. He was still incredibly disoriented from the crash but there was more to it than just a concussion. He could feel the beginnings of whatever they had drugged him with. The two men had to practically drag him towards the car, a situation Neal was all too happy to make worse.

“Whatever it is they’re paying you, I’ll double it,” he tried, hating the way his voice sounded so small. The short one started laughing at him.

“I’m serious,” he added as he was pushed forward roughly. He faked a stumble and the short one was forced to put himself under Neal’s right arm to steady him. “I have connections. People. I can get you how ever much you want. Just let me go.” But his efforts were in vain. His kidnappers refused to engage so Neal fell back on the only other card he had left to play. He draped himself over the short one, forcing the man to take most of his weight with a colorful curse. He was half walked, half dragged to their car which was parked just a few yards behind the decimated Ford. The nice looking sedan’s front end was a little smashed but other than that, appeared to still be running. Both cars, Neal noticed, had come to a stop in a lane of traffic that had been coned off for construction. It was likely the only reason their little crash had not turned into something much worse, like a full blown pile up on the bridge. Though Neal wondered if perhaps that might have been better. At least then more people would have been involved. As it was, traffic continued on around them, the drivers in their cars completely oblivious to the kidnapping taking place right in front of their eyes and in broad daylight no less.

Neal risked a glance over his shoulder and back at the mangled little Ford. It sat smoking near the side of the bridge, smashed against a concrete pylon, Jones’ unconscious form still visible in the front seat. Surely someone had to of seen something and called for help.

“Come on guys, let's talk about this,” he tried one last time as the gap between them and the sedan grew smaller. The shorter one, who Neal had affectionately begun calling Shorty in his head, pressed his gun into the small of Neal’s back.

“You wag that silver tongue of yours one more time, Caffrey, and I swear to god...” He didn’t finish the threat, just pushed the gun in harder until it hurt and Neal got the picture.

Talking was not going to work with these men. Neal realized that now. They were soldiers of fortune and would get the job done at any cost. He knew men like this. Hell, he’d just gotten several of them arrested not less than an hour ago. They would stop at nothing to get the job done, and not even his “silver tongue” as Shorty had called it, would get them to deviate from their mission. He also had the sneaky suspicion that, were he to be taken by these men, he might not emerge from the otherside of this deal with all his appendages still in place, or even alive. They weren’t wearing masks, for one, and there was not much behind their eyes beyond determination and murder. Neal had to do whatever it took to get away from these men. He had to fight. Get away and find Peter. Call a damn ambulance for Jones. Neal began to formulate a plan.

Shorty’s accomplice let go of Neal and got ahead of them to open the door to the sedan’s backseat. Whatever he was going to do, he needed to do it before they got him in the back of that car and his chances of survival decreased exponentially. Shorty started trying to manhandle him into the backseat and he figured now was as good a time as any. In a maneuver he knew would have made Peter proud, Neal threw his already aching head backwards and then relished in the satisfied crunch Shorty’s nose made as it impacted the back of his skull. The man backed away, dropping his gun and clutching at his now gushing nose.

“You son of a bitch!” 

Shorty lunged for him, catching Neal in the stomach yet again with a well placed punch. As before, all the air was forced out of his already compromised lungs and Neal started to choke. The chilly winter air wasn’t doing him any favors, but none of this seemed to matter to Shorty. The man continued to deliver blow after merciless blow to whatever part of Neal he could reach, his partner begging him to wrap it up already because the cops were on the way. Neal did the only thing he could do, and made himself as small as possible so most of Shorty’s blows struck him in the arm and back. The world was fading. One more hit to his face and he was going to pass out. So he did the only thing that was available to him. He pushed himself away from the side of the car and drove a shoulder into Shorty’s middle. The pathetic attempt at self defense was weak at best, but it was enough to send Shorty stumbling back a few feet. 

Only the stumbling didn’t stop there. It kept going until Shorty was pinwheeling his arms in one last desperate attempt to regain his balance. But it wasn’t working. He kept going, one stumbling step after another. Time itself seemed to slow down as the two men’s eyes locked just before it happened.

The huge box truck with pictures of food pasted to its sides came out of nowhere and then suddenly, Shorty wasn’t there anymore and Neal was blinking stupidly at the place where the man had just been standing. Even as the box truck slammed on its brakes and all that remained of Shorty slid from the grill and hit the pavement with an audible slap, he couldn’t look away.

“Oh my fucking god,” someone screamed, breaking Neal out of his trance. He turned his head to see that the words had come from Shorty’s accomplice. The man was running towards the truck, leaving a very shocked Neal by himself on the side of the road. He watched as the taller one rounded the side of the truck and put a hand to his mouth. He turned to look back at Neal, his face white as a ghost’s and full of shock. But then that shock morphed into something else. Became something dark, almost feral even. He dropped his hand and suddenly Neal was more afraid of him than he’d ever been of Shorty, or even of getting kidnapped. He slipped from the zip ties with practiced ease, turned on his heels, and embraced that oldest of Neal Caffrey traditions: running for his life.

The bridge was in utter chaos by now. Cars were stopped, some with their rear or front ends smashed in thanks to Shorty’s unfortunate demise by box truck. Neal zigzagged his way through them, ignoring the obscenities that were screamed at him, glancing over his shoulder every few seconds to make sure he still knew where his tall friend was. The man was chasing after him, and gaining too. Probably because of the drugs. They were really starting to take effect now and he found himself missing time. He’d blink and suddenly he wasn’t in the same place anymore. It was disorienting him and slowing him down, but Neal knew he had to keep going, had to keep running. Tall Boy - that was a good name for him - was going to kill him now, there was no doubt about it. He’d seen that in his eyes. Shorty had meant something to him.

They were dangerous eyes. The kind of eyes that belonged to murderers and serial killers. Empty. 

Neal had seen so many of those eyes over the years. Too many. Eyes with no remorse. Just cold calculation and the desire to make Neal just another statistic. Because that’s all kidnapping cases were to the FBI. Not people. Not places. Cubic feet and body mass. Pathology reports and medical records. Cold and impersonal statistics. 

Neal shook his head. The drugs were messing with his thoughts, but he was still in control of enough of his faculties to know that he couldn’t stop. His entire life depended on it.

So he ran, and kept running even when the first of the bullets whizzed past his head.

The bridge they were on had two sections, one for cars and one for pedestrians. Neal chanced upon a hole in the barrier separating the two and he threw himself through it, ignoring the burn as a bit of ragged chain link fence caught his thigh. It snagged on his coat as well and Neal spent precious moments trying to free himself. When that wouldn’t work, he finally just gave up, wriggled his way out of the coat, and left it lying there on the ground. It didn’t take Tall Boy long to find that same hole or for the bullets to start firing again. He tried to count them, knowing the man chasing him would only have a limited number of rounds. But he couldn't keep track, and Tall Boy was gaining on him.

One of the bridge’s tall towers loomed up ahead of him like a beacon emerging from the fog. He pointed himself in that direction. Construction had apparently included this area of the bridge too and there was once again space for Neal to squeeze out onto a small platform that had been erected around the perimeter of one tower. It looked like it was being used by the absent workers to repair some of the bricks and there were tools scattered here and there on the rickety boards. A bullet followed Neal in and ricocheted off something metallic. He inched along the platform, keeping his back to the bricks until Tall Boy and the frigid winter wind disappeared. He stood there panting for what felt like hours, his congested lungs doing everything they could to draw in enough oxygen to keep him from passing out. It wasn’t doing much good, however, and Neal could have sworn there were black spots beginning to form at the edges of his vision. 

It wouldn’t be long now.

The winter wind howled around him but no longer whipped at his pant legs. Even so, he shivered. Whether that was due to the freezing temperatures or the fact that he had nowhere left to run, he couldn’t be sure. 

Even over the sound of the wind, he could hear Tall Boy struggling to get himself through that tiny hole Neal had gone through. He was apparently having some difficulty and Neal used the precious moments it gave him to try and come up with a plan. From his perch on the tower, he could see all of Manhattan spread out before him. His city. His home. His thoughts strayed to Peter as a plan began to form in his head. To how his death might affect the agent and if he would mourn. To all the things he’d left unsaid to Mozzie. To how it might feel to die this way. To all the people he would leave behind, and the ones he just might be able to see again.

Tall Boy was through. Neal could hear his heavy boots on the platform as they shook the entire structure. This was it. The end. 

Ignoring the howl of the wind, Neal closed his eyes and stepped away from the rough bricks. He couldn’t bring himself to look down at the muddy brown water of the East River. He simply bent his knees, said something that resembled a prayer, and jumped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took some creative license with the layout of the Brooklyn Bridge for this chapter. The NYPD does not even track or report on the number of people who jump off it, let alone survive. If you are ever in Neal's situation and being chased down by a gun-wielding mad man, please do not jump. Also, if this has trigged you in any way, or if you or a loved one are struggling with depression or thoughts of suicide, the number for the national suicide prevention hotline is 800-273-8255


	4. Damn It, Neal

Peter Burke perused his lunch menu and tried to drown out the conversation Hughes and Robert Leech were currently having at the other end of the conference room table. It mainly involved passive aggressive remarks on Leech’s part about the way Hughes was running his office. His boss was holding his own, but Peter could tell it was taking everything Hughes had to keep a cool head and not start going off on the insufferable man. He was pissing everyone off and still refused to allow Peter the use of his cellphone. He was in the midst of berating Hughes for the further delays when Agent Reed poked her head into the room again.

Peter looked up at her from over his menu, grateful for the distraction. That gratefulness was short lived though as he took in her ashen face and wide eyes. 

_ Now what _ ?

“Agent Burke, may I have word with you?”

Peter set the lunch menu down onto the table. “Of course Agent Reed. Come on in.”

“Out here in the hall maybe, Sir?”

Leech, with that uncanny ability of his to pick up on any anxiety within 50 yards of himself stopped talking and was on the young agent in an instant. 

“Anything you have to say to Agent Burke can be said in front of us all, young lady,” the man all but sneered. Agent Reed turned whiter, if that was even possible, and looked to Peter for direction. Seeing no other option than to obey the order, he nodded to his agent. 

“What’s up Agent Reed?”

Reed gulped and then said in a small voice, “It’s Caffrey’s anklet, Sir. It’s been cut.”

“What?” all three men in the room asked at the same time. Peter scrambled out of his chair.

“It’s true, Sir.” One of Leech’s US Marshals cut in as he side stepped Reed and entered the room behind her. He was all business as he slammed a laptop down onto the conference room table, pointing at the screen. “Happened 5 minutes ago, give or take.”

The three men crowded in. There was a familiar program up on the screen, and one Peter had seen many times before. He watched it now with cold dread settling in the pit of his stomach and chasing away any thoughts he might have had about lunch. In the middle of the screen, blinking out at them in huge, red letters, was all the confirmation any of them needed. 

Neal’s anklet had been cut.

Before Leech could even draw the breath to yell at him not too, Peter was bursting through the conference room doors and out into the main office. Everyone out there was in just as much of an uproar as the room he'd just left. They bombarded him with questions, but Peter ignored them all. He sprinted for his office instead and the cellphone he knew would be waiting there for him on top of his desk. He fumbled with it in his haste and it tumbled from his hands and onto the floor. Muttering to himself, he scooped it up, his rage at Robert Leech growing exponentially. How much of this could have been avoided had that man not insisted they leave their cellphones at their desks? And speaking of Leech, he could still hear the man bellowing at him to return to the conference room immediately. Peter did, but he brought his phone along with him. There were a handful of automatic texts from the Marshals informing him about Neal’s cut anklet, but that wasn’t what he was after. There were several from Jones all the way at the bottom. He scanned them quickly as he made his way back to the conference room. He was already dialing the agent when Hughes appeared at his side.

“Did you hear from them?” the director asked, looking a bit agitated but like he was trying to hide it.

Peter cursed quietly when Jones’ voicemail picked up. He ended the call and quickly stabbed at the screen to try again.

“A few texts,” he answered Hughes as he silently begged for Jones to answer his damn phone this time. “The last one said they were stuck in traffic.”

“So they’re probably just fine,” Hughes added hopefully. Jones’ phone going to voicemail yet again was telling a different story, however. 

“I can’t reach him,” Peter said angrily, ending the call with a frustrated sigh. At least Leech wasn’t shouting at him anymore. The man had apparently given up on him and was instead berating someone on the other end of his own call on the conference room telephone.

By now the small room was swarming with agents and US Marshals, all of them trying to get their laptops booted up and connected to the office wi-fi. Someone had turned on the conference room TV and now Neal’s red alert was flickering in high definition across the plasma. As was a map of his last known location.

“Where is that?” Peter asked, pointing towards the screen.

“Brooklyn Bridge, Sir.”

“What would Caffrey and Jones be doing on the Brooklyn Bridge?” Hughes queried.

Peter inched closer to the screen, scrutinizing the streets. “The raid this morning was right near here,” he said, pointing to the general location of the Manhattan Storage building.

Hughes rubbed at his chin. “Any reason they’d make a detour?”

“None that I can think of,” Peter replied.

“A wrong turn?”

“Maybe,” Peter mused before turning around to address the room.

“Aright people! I want details. Where were they headed, how long has Caffrey’s tracker been offline. Where is it now.” Several heads bent closer to their laptops, the clacking of keys almost enough to drown Robert Leech’s dulcet tones. “Do we have units heading to the scene?”

“My guys are on it,” the Marshal who had arrived right after Reed informed him. Peter nodded and then turned his attention on Leech who was still yelling into the conference room phone.

“That’s right, you heard me. Neal Caffrey has cut his anklet and is on the run. I want all available units down here to aid in the search. Yes, I’m here at the White Collar offices now. I’ll coordinate the manhunt from here myself.”

“Manhunt?” Peter repeated with raised brows as Leech slammed down the phone receiver and turned his beady little eyes in his direction. Those glasses of his were perched on the end of his nose again and looked in serious danger of falling off his face altogether. Peter wondered what would happen if he walked over there and helped them a little.

“How else would you recommend we respond to the escape of a dangerous criminal?”

“For one thing, Neal is not a dangerous criminal.” Peter took a step forward, but Hughes grabbed him by the arm in warning. “And secondly, we don’t even know what happened yet. There could be a perfectly logical explanation for why Neal’s anklet was cut.”

“Reece, is this really the way you handle your team?” Leech fumed, ignoring Peter and addressing Hughes from over the agent’s shoulder. “Neal Caffrey is a convicted felon and a danger to society.” Peter rolled his eyes this time, no longer caring if the DOJ lackey saw. “And shall be be treated as such until he is once again in FBI custody!”

Peter closed his eyes and took a calming breath before speaking again. He couldn’t afford to lose it now. Do that and he ran the risk of being dismissed and sent home. And something told him that was exactly what Robert Leech was hoping for. He wanted Peter to fly off the handle so he could get him out of the way. And with Peter out of the way, he’d be free to run the search in any way he saw fit. It all felt too convenient to him suddenly and Peter felt the first seeds of suspicion start to take root in his mind. What was Robert Leech up to?

Peter opened his eyes. “Neal Caffrey is my informant and a valuable asset to my team, or has the DOJ forgotten about this office’s 93% conviction rate?”

“Smoke and mirrors,” Leech replied dismissively, waiving a hand. “As much a farce as a project leader under the delusion that a convicted criminal could ever be a reliable asset to the FBI.”

Peter blinked, the words like a slap in the face. Even Hughes seemed to sense the hidden meaning in them and stiffened behind him. Barely concealed glee began to light Robert Leech’s eyes from behind. There was no longer any doubt in Peter’s mind about what this man’s intentions were. He’d come to White Collar not to review and report back on Neal’s progress and growth, but to throw Peter’s CI back in jail. That was his true motive and the only reason he’d shown up this morning, parading himself around the office like a Maharaja studded in jewels. All the evidence Peter needed was painted there on the man’s face. The only thing he wasn’t sure of yet, was why.

Ignoring Leech’s obvious attempt at riling him up further, Peter wiped all the emotion from his face and turned to Hughes.

“Neal is still my CI,” he reminded his diretor. “If anyone is going to bring him back in, it should be me.”

“We’ll see about that,” Leech muttered under his breath.

Peter ignored the snide comment. He knew he was putting Hughes in a difficult position, but he had no choice. Neal’s future with White Collar could very well depend on it.

“Uh, Sirs,” one of the agents working at their computers interrupted, saving Hughes from having to make his decision, at least for the time being. “We’ve got reports of gunfire coming in from the location where Caffrey’s tracker was cut.”

“What?” Peter, Hughes and Leech all said again. Peter stalked over to the agent who had spoken and squinted down at his computer screen.

“Reports of gunfire and EMS dispatched to the scene.”

“Where?” Peter’s heart had dropped down into his stomach. But apparently this was the morning for interruptions, and bad news. Before the tech could even answer yet another one of Peter’s agents burst into the room. The breathless young man made a beeline for the conference room TV. 

“You all have got to see this.”

He punched a few buttons on the remote and then suddenly the screen was flipping over to some random news station. Peter straightened instantly and walked back over towards the TV just as some horrible, amature cellphone video filled the screen. There was no sound, but Peter could tell the footage was of the Brooklyn Bridge, even as the camera operator struggled to steady their shot. The images jolted sickeningly but eventually the image stabilized enough for the room to watch on in captive silence. 

The camera zoomed in even further and the small figure of a man could be seen jumping off the bridge and into the frigid water below.

Peter’s blood froze instantly.

It couldn't be.

There was just no way in hell.

The video was crappy and shaky and taken from too far away. So what if the timestamp had today’s date and just happened to be filmed near the exact location Neal’s anklet had been cut. It couldn’t be him. He and Jones were probably just stuck in traffic somewhere. Traffic that had been created by that nutjob's nosedive into the East River.

“Do we have a current location on Neal’s tracker?” Peter asked no one in particular, swallowing down the fear and bile that was gathering in the back of his throat.

“Yes,” came someone’s hesitant reply.

Peter spun around and looked into the eyes of every person seated at the conference room table. He could immediately tell who belonged to him and who belonged to Leech. His people stared back at him with wide, concerned eyes. Leech’s men had nothing but determination and anger in theirs. He committed those faces to memory. Who knew, the information might come in handy later when this turned into the battle Peter suspected it might become. Could feel in his bones, really. The storm was already brewing, and at its center, sat Robert Leech. Peter flicked his eyes over to the man in question and found him studying Peter intently, hanging on his every word.

“And?” Peter demanded, tearing his eyes away from the insufferable man.

“And you're not going to like it, Sir.”

“I really don’t care if I’m going to like it or not, Agent. Where is it?”

The agent clicked something on their computer and the news channel disappeared. Neal’s map was back.

“The middle of the East River, Sir.”

_ Damn it, Neal. _


	5. The East River

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> emeto tw

He awoke half buried in sand. And not that nice, beachy kind of sand either. No, this was that mucky, smelly kind that was more mud and sediment than actual river bottom. The horrible smell of it made him gag, and before he knew it, Neal was emptying the contents of his stomach out into the shallows. When it was all over, he rolled himself onto his back and pried his sleep droopy eyes open.    
  
The sky above him swam into focus. A huge expanse of steely grey clouds opening up just for him. Somewhere off in the distance, the dysonate symphony of a hundred police sirens was carried over to him by the wind. 

It was beautiful and haunting all at the same time. 

And all for him. 

Just for him.

Neal smiled. 

The sky above him was the same shade of gray as the side of a ship, so Neal naturally came to the conclusion that this was the East River he was sprawled out in.

He grinned wider. A feeling he could only describe as euphoria settled over him as awareness slowly dawned. He was lying half in the sand and half in the water. Above him the clouds floated by. He reached a hand out, convinced that if he did, he could run his fingers through them. How would it feel, he wondered. Like cotton maybe? Pure mist?

But his fingers found only wind and he let his hand plop back into the water. 

Disappointing.

It occurred to him suddenly, in that way all great thoughts do, that he should be dead, or at least in a great deal of pain, considering he’d just taken a nosedive into the East River. 

Or had he? 

There were things missing, parts of his memory he couldn’t quite access, but he just couldn’t be bothered to care. 

Neal smiled again.

He couldn’t feel much of anything, come to think of it, which led Neal to his next big revelation of the day. 

He’d been drugged.

Not that he was complaining. He was happy, pain free, surprisingly warm and in an incredibly good mood despite having just upchucked half the East River back into itself only moments ago. 

He added lightheaded and disconnected to his fun list of words.

The euphoria was nothing short of incredible. Like a Monet under perfect light. 

Heavenly.

Neal lay in his shallow water, letting the current pull gently at his pant legs, feeling nothing more than a serene sense of detachment. Like floating,

Like dying.

He could float away altogether, if he wanted to. 

The river’s current was strong. Probably strong enough to carry him all the way to the ocean. Maybe he could ride it just a little further. Away from New York City and away from those sirens. 

Away from who he was and who everyone kept trying to tell him he should be…

But sound behaved differently out on the water. He remembered that from his sailing days. Back when he’d taken a trip around the world that one year the FBI got too close. 

He’d stolen some paintings from one of their higher ups just because he could. Just jumped on a job at the last minute because he heard the target was an FBI guy. Stick it to the man. Give the FBI the bird.

Neal missed those days on the water, when it was just him and his boat. He’d named her Juniper - even though her previous owner had already given her a name. After the woman who was supposed to sail with him. Long and sleek, just like her namesake.

And hard to tie down, in the end. 

His time with the lady might not have gone according to plan, but man oh man did he adore that boat. He spent months on her just sailing around the coast, meeting new and interesting people, stealing their money and then moving on to the next port to do it all over again. He’d learned a lot about sailing in those days. Like how the wind was a liar and should never, ever be trusted. How solitude could sometimes play tricks on a man. What it felt like to be the only human being for miles, and the weight of that realization when it finally hit.

And of course, how to navigate using only the stars. 

There would be no stars tonight. His clouds would see to that.

Neal opened the eyes he hadn’t even realized he closed and shook his fist at the sky. That would show ‘em. 

For stealing his stars. 

For pushing him off that bridge.

Had he really just done that? How was he even alive?

But Neal’s stars would not lead him home, or to the next port even. Not if those clouds stuck around.

“Thanks a million,” he muttered to them just as it began to rain.

The sky spat out an icy spray that Neal figured was just about the most exquisite thing in the world. It felt like the pinpricks of a well trained Chinese healer. 

He’d met one of those once. New York was full of them, if you knew where to look. Ancient folk who’d come to this country on boats and learned their trade from ancestors, not textbooks. 

There was a clinical name for the people who went to school. The ones who got degrees and plastered their accomplishments on plaques hung on their walls or over their doors. 

Acupuncturists, that’s what they called themselves. What an absurd little word. 

Neal would never go to one of those hacks, though hundreds of people probably did. He would seek out the real thing. The ones with their doors hidden in back alleys and their signs hand painted, and in a language he’d once tried to master but now only marginally understood, and still couldn’t speak. 

Dirty back rooms and shopkeepers who tried to sell you good luck charms and love potions in broken English when they were finished with you. 

Neal didn’t mind the rain. Even if it was more ice than water. He could have floated in the river’s current for hours until the skin of his fingers wrinkled and he started to shiver. Like he used to when he was young and had time for things like lingering in bathtubs. 

Alone or with Kate

Kate.

Katie. 

He should have named his boat after her. 

But Kate would have sunk him. Marooned him on some deserted island in the middle of nowhere. 

But hadn't she already? 

Hadn’t she already drilled holes in his deck and run him aground? 

Kate. His poor, dead Katydid.

Neal couldn’t tell if it was rain or tears on his cheeks. 

He was lost. So lost. 

He kept trying to find land, but the damn storms just kept coming. One after the other. 

The FBI, the DOJ, Keller. Even Peter, sometimes... They were all determined to take the very boat from beneath his feet and laugh as he was left floundering in the water, crushed against the rocks by the waves again and again until he broke.

And he was so very close to breaking.

Neal rolled over onto his side and retched into the water again. His body shook this time as he heaved violently, real tears pushing out from the corners of his eyes. But he didn’t feel it. He didn’t feel anything. Just detachment. It was like he was watching it happen from several feet above his own body. His shriveled little shell vomiting into the river.

What in the hell had they given him?

When Neal was once again on his back and felt something long and wet slide against the skin of his calf, he began to contemplate moving. He may be drugged, but he knew enough to know that spending hours in the East River was not the brightest of ideas. Plus there was something nagging at the back of his mind. Some urgent thing pulling him up out of the sand and pushing his memories of Kate to the side. Something that tugged him forward and warned him that he shouldn’t stay in one place for too long. 

Only the drugs were tugging at the other end of that rope. They promised him peace if he just stayed here resting for a bit longer. 

In the rain. In the lapping water. In the beautiful, lovely muck that felt like silk when he ran his fingers through it. 

Drugs were nice like that. They let him push all of those bad things into one little corner of his mind. The one with the door. And the lock that worked. So that’s what he did. He pushed them aside and let that euphoria settle back in. Like the heat of a cat curled up on his chest as he slept. 

Warm, calm, gentle.

But Peter wouldn’t appreciate him lying around here like this, wasting time. Not when there were things to see and people to do - or something like that.

So Neal rolled over and didn’t let trembling muscles stop him from standing up.

His left leg buckled beneath him. He ignored it, brushing the pebbles from his knees and straightening. Nothing was going to get in his way. Not broken bones or memories of Kate.

Walking felt a bit like those first few hours of dry land after a long sojourn on Juniper. Tilted, but disappearing with each staggering step he took.

It was easy. 

Like riding a bike. 

Except that bike kept trying to tip him off. 

Whatever. Neal pushed on.

The wind was ruffling his damp hair. He hadn’t a care in the world. Tall Boy and the bridge were far behind him and would not follow. He had other things to think about now, like how all the colors around him were so vibrant they made him want to cry. Or how sad it was that there was so much beauty in this world and people just kept missing it. Just walked past it with their collars pulled up and their heads down. 

The wind lifted and swirled the decaying trash littered across his little shore. It was mesmerizing. How could people just walk past this place each day and not stop and stare? The world was like an upscale art gallery that came with its own staging department, and you didn’t even have to pay them. 

Lit by sunshine and street lamps and another kind of illumination altogether that seemed to radiate from within.

He was going to have to try and remember this place. Being Peter here, or maybe even Mozzie. They would understand. They would see what he saw. They were good at spotting the beauty in things others found repellant.

Like him. 

Neal rubbed his sleeve under his nose and started walking again, leaving his little beach behind. 

New York loomed before him, her vast arms open and inviting, ready to receive him. 

A man could get lost in an embrace like that. Dirty, and hard, with lots of little places to hole up in and lose yourself. But Neal wasn’t going to get lost. He felt too happy to crawl into some hole and disappear now. 

He staggered forward with a smile on his face. Felt lighter as he left his memories of Kate in the water - chum for the sharks - and made his way towards the familiar buildings. Towards home. There was nothing to be afraid of anymore. 

And if he got too lost, well then, he would just follow the sounds of the sirens.

After all, where was the harm in that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took some liberties with the drug Neal's would be abductors dosed him with.


	6. I Didn't Do It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> needles tw

“You keep calling Neal an escaped convict, but we don’t even know what happened yet!” Peter all but yelled. Hughes was all the way on the other side of the room and not there to hold him back this time. He did shoot a warning look at him from over the conference room table though. So Peter reigned it in. But only slightly. Leech was making it impossible for him to calm down all the way.

“His anklet has been cut. Agent Jones is missing and has yet to respond to your office's repeated attempts at contact. How much more evidence do you need before you accept the fact that Neal Caffrey is running?”

“Because I know him!” Peter tried not to rage. “Neal has no reason to run. None of this makes any sense and you’re jumping to conclusions based on a… Fox News story.”

“And I fail to understand how you can have such blind faith in the man! This is not the first time Neal Caffrey has pulled a stunt like this, is it Agent Burke?”

Peter clenched his jaw.

“ _Is it,_ Agent Burke?” 

Leech looked smug as Peter kept silent, knowing anything he said now would just make the situation worse. 

“Exactly my point,” Leech went on. “Neal Caffrey is a dangerous criminal who was given far too much leniency in this office. And now an Agent is missing and his life might very well be in jeopardy.”

“Based on what evidence?” Peter asked, resisting the urge to throw up his hands.

“Gunfire on the bridge! His lack of communication! The cut anklet. You saw the same news reports that I did!”  
  
“And that makes him a criminal?”

“It does in my book! And I am at an utter loss as to why you are not taking this situation more seriously.”

“Because I know him!” Peter repeated. “Caffrey is not running.”

“And Jones? Where is he, Agent Burke?”

Peter was at a loss for words. Leech had an answer for everything, though his leaps were illogical at best, and completely dumbfounding.

“Well let me hazard a guess,” Leech pushed on. “Knowing I was here and that his criminal activities were finally going to be exposed, Neal Caffrey tricked Agent Jones into driving him outside his radius this morning where he then disposed of the agent in some way, cut his anklet, and is now on the run.

“That’s the kind of man your golden boy is, Agent Burke. A suspected murderer and a con man.”

Peter stopped dead. “Murderer?”

“Now wait just a minute, Robert,” Hughes interjected. “That’s a mighty big leap you're taking there. Just because Jones isn’t answering his phone doesn't mean Neal Caffrey murdered him.”

“He’s a murderer in my eyes, Reece,” Leech said sadly, ducking his head like Christmas _hadn’t_ just come early for him. “Until Neal Caffrey is apprehended, or until Agent Jones is located, the Marshals have been ordered to treat Caffrey as armed and dangerous.”

“Oh you’ve got to be kidding me,” Peter exclaimed, really throwing his arms up this time and walking to the other side of the room lest he take a flying leap over the conference room table and start choking Robert Leech out right there in front of a dozen or so witnesses.

“I wish I were, Agent Burke” Leech continued on with his mock sorrow. “And I think my colleagues back at the DOJ will be very interested to hear how you proposed we handle this very dangerous situation.”

“You mean when I asked you to please stop and think about things for a minute?” Peter practically growled. “Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty?”

“Burke…” Hughes warned quietly.

Leech’s eyes went dark. “You know, I’ve let a lot of your snide comments slide today, Agent Burke. Speak to me in that tone again, and I will have this entire office up before the Office of Professional Responsibility before you can say Neal Caffrey.”

“Now, now Robert. You know that won’t be necessary,” Hughes cut in.

“Are you sure, Director Hughes?” Leech replied, turning those dark eyes on Peter’s boss. “Because the lack of professionalism and decorum I have witnessed from this office today is positively deplorable. Your agents run amok. Violent criminals are left unsupervised and in the care of inexperienced agents. This entire operation is…”

But Leech never got to finish his tirade. A commotion out in the main office drew the arguing man’s focus and Peter had to blink several times to make sure his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him when he looked over to see what all the fuss was about. 

Standing just inside the front doors and looking very wet and dishevelled, was the man of the hour. The name on everybody’s lips. None other than Neal Caffrey. 

Leech’s mouth fell open and Peter just uttered the first thing that came out of his mouth before he started running. 

“Holy shit.”

* * *

The funny thing about cabs was that most drivers wouldn’t pull over if you looked suspicious. And a grown man running down the streets of Manhattan, sopping wet and obviously probably very a little bit drunk, looked a bit suspicious, so Neal didn’t fault the cabs for not stopping. 

He _felt_ drunk. 

Walking a straight line was impossible, but he kept moving anyways. His business pulling him forward since he couldn’t call anyone for help. His phone was dead, an unfortunate casualty of his swan dive into the river. Though he supposed there was always his anklet…

Neal stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk. The pedestrian who had been walking behind him plowed into the back of him.

“Jesus buddy, watch where you’re walking!” the man exclaimed, never once looking up from his phone. The irony of that was not lost on Neal who chuckled as he lifted his pant leg. 

His ankle was trackerless. 

Neal considered the bare skin of his lower leg. A faint tan line still lingered where the tracker had once encircled his ankle, but he couldn't for the life of him remember when he’d last seen it. 

He lost his balance and let the leg fall.

It wouldn’t have fallen off when he dove into the water, would it?

He touched the side of a building for support. He got so dizzy when he tried to think like this. The feel of the brick beneath his hand, it’s lovely texture stole his focus for a moment. 

Neal shook his head. 

His foot would have had to come off first for the anklet to slip off, right? He glanced down to check that his foot was still there. It was.

His memories from before hurt to look at. They made him nauseous and uncomfortable every time he tried to pull them out and examine them. 

But what were missing anklets and obtuse memories compared to refreshing rain and art and the tactile feel of rough bricks between his fingers?

 _Did he cut it?_ , Neal wondered to himself. He hadn’t cut it… or had he? No, that wasn’t entirely correct. He’d been forced to, by Shorty. Right. Before...

That thought was enough to sober him up if only for a moment.

“Oh, Peter is going to be so pissed at me.”

Neal grabbed the sides of his head as the world spun and his handler appeared on the sidewalk before him.

_“What are you doing out here, Neal? Do you have any idea what you’ve done? You better get your ass back to the office right now and explain yourself.”_

Shadows darted across the sidewalk and then Peter was gone. Neal tried to make out their shapes, but they were too quick. Sins? His ghosts, maybe? He’d collected so many of those over the years. And now they had finally caught up with him and were determined to haunt him. 

They watched him, those shadows within the shadows. Always searching for him. 

“What in the hell did you give me!?” 

Several people across the street stopped to stare. Neal let his hands drop from his wet hair, from where he had been pulling on tuffs of it while he screamed. 

Had he really just done that?

Chiding himself internally, Neal kept on walking, arms wrapped around his middle. His left pant leg was ripped and the fabric flapped around his ankle in the wind. He had no memory of snagging that either. Unless it happened during his flight from Tall Boy.

Neal rubbed at his eyes. His mind was no better than a sieve.

Like his shadows, the memories of being forced into that backseat were flittering on the edge of his mind, demanding entry. Demanding to be acknowledged. Neal resisted the urge to literally run from them. They were dark memories, unhappy memories, and Neal was trying oh so hard to turn this bad trip back into the happy, floaty one from before. He couldn’t think of shadows or cut anklets, or of dead people with psychopathic partners who probably thought Neal really needed to be dead right now. 

Dead. Jones.

_Oh god._

Neal glanced around the street, trying to orient himself. His audience had moved on, thank god, and if his drugged brain could be trusted, he was pretty sure he was somewhere in the financial district. 

Office buildings lined the streets, but the sidewalks were relatively empty. Not that that stopped him from imagining Tall Boy lurking around every corner, behind every trash can or newspaper dispenser. Even the signposts on the street corners with their blinking lights and little white stick figures that marched right on out of their boxes and down the street seemed like good places to hide. 

Neal’s hands were headed for his hair again, but he resisted the urge, flexing his fingers and stuffing them into his pockets. His very wet pockets that still did the job, though he mourned the loss of his gloves. 

What Neal really needed to do was find Peter. Tell him about Jones. Get him out of that car. Peter would know what to do, how to make it right, even if he had just been screaming in Neal’s ear a few minutes ago about screwing up again. 

But Angry Peter was wrong. He knew that much. He was drugged, not stupid. 

He kept walking. 

Peter was going to protect him. Help him put the pieces of the last few hours back into some semblance of order. Get him sober, and off this psychedelic nightmare ride. 

And oh boy did he want off. He was done with the hallucinations and the confusing swing of his thoughts. How his mood went from bliss to hellfire in the blink of an eye. The sooner he got to White Collar, the better.

Figuring a change in tactics was in order, Neal fished his wallet from out of his pocket and was happy to see it had survived his jump. Other things hadn't. Like his sanity, apparently. And his hat. He would miss that hat. If he had even been wearing it today.

His gloves, the lovely ones Elizabeth had given him as an early Christmas present, were gone. Probably still with his coat, wherever that was. Or left by the riverbank. No matter. He would get them back when he showed that place to Peter. The place with the water and the wind. Unless the shadows had eaten that too.

Even so, it would still be worth it, Neal decided. He really liked those gloves.

Emptying the wallet of all its cash, Neal waived the rather impressive wad at every cab that passed. He tried his best not to stagger, or to look as high as he felt, and eventually a driver who couldn’t pass up the fare pulled over. 

The cabbie apprised him as Neal all but fell into the back of his cab. It smelled of fish and strange spices. Familiar ones. Ones he might have been able to name had he not been so stoned out of his mind.

Neal didn’t care anymore. The cab was nothing like the back seat of Shorty’s car. The only danger in here was coming out the other side of this nightmare smelling like river muck and seafood. 

His driver's stare moved from appraising to wary as Neal shut the door behind him. The cabbie wore one of those newsboy caps and there were catholic medals pinned from the sun visors and swinging from the rearview. For a moment, Neal was worried the man would change his mind and kick him back out, even as the Virgin Mary sat watching serenely from a place of honor stuck to the dash. 

But Neal had cash. And everyone on earth understood cash.

Neal pushed some bills through the hole in the driver’s barrier and gave what he was pretty sure was the address for White Collar. He arranged himself on the seat, and then waited for the cab to move. 

It took a moment or two, but eventually the driver scooped up the soaking wet bills, stuffed them into his pocket and pulled away from the curb. The screech of the tires reminded Neal of a woman he’d once known who’d gone and gotten herself blown up, and then nothing again as the sounds of the city and the rumble of the tires on the road forced their way into his head.

Neal tried staring out the window first, but that proved to be a bad idea almost instantly. He saw things in the spaces between the buildings. Things that couldn’t possibly be there. Things from his childhood. Things no one knew about and he had pushed so far down into his subconscious that they only ever surfaced in dreams. 

Neal glanced up to Mary’s calm visage bobbing back and forth on the dash. He had never been a religious man, but he spoke to her anyway. 

“Will it ever be over?”

“You say sumthin’?” his cabbie asked. Neal just looked away. 

Whatever they had drugged him with, it must have been some kind of hallucinogenic. Mixed with a pain killer. Mixed with a downer... He really hated stuff like that. It rotted your veins along with your soul. Still, he imagined he could see the appeal. When the shadows stayed away, that was. The shadows were the worst.

Nausea crept up into the back of Neal’s throat. 

His window was either broken or had been disabled by the driver so cracking it was out of the question. He settled on sitting with his head as far between his legs as he could get it and breathing deeply. Only breathing deeply seemed to not be something his lungs were capable of, especially when he was bent over. There was a catch every time he tried to expand his diaphragm and he really wasn’t sure what to make of it. He pushed the feeling from his mind, which was easy enough to do. 

The shadows under the seat stayed put. There were no memories lurking in the dark space between his legs, so he kept his head there.

“Don’t you dare puke in the back of my cab,” his driver said, turning around in his seat but not going so far as to pull over and kick Neal out. He must really have needed the fare.

Neal gave him a thumbs up from the backseat as the nausea subsided a bit. He looked up again, just in time to see the familiar building that housed the White Collar offices come into view.

There were people milling about on the sidewalk. Several police cars blocked the street with their lights flashing. Neal could hardly take his eyes off them and pressed his face to the window glass to get a better look. The color was splashed everywhere, across the buildings, the sidewalk, people’s faces, even the front of his own shirt. It was refracted into a thousand beams of light and Neal had the sudden urge to try and capture a few of them in his hands. Take them and mold them into something more beautiful than what they already were. Create something unique with their strands that no one else in the world had ever seen before....

“Hey! Nutcase! That’ll be another $7.50, pal,” his cabbie said, and Neal peeled his face away from the window. 

The cabbie had pulled to the side of the road about a block and a half away from his destination. With the police blocking the road, it was the closest he could get. 

Neal pulled another twenty from his wallet and stuffed it through the little hole in the partition separating the front of the cab from the back. 

“Keep the change,” he said with a smile, climbing ungracefully from the back of the cab and nearly tripping over the curb in the process. The cabbie muttered something obscene under his breath and then peeled off again. Neal righted himself and waved before glancing around to make sure no one had seen his clumsiness. They hadn’t. They were all too interested in what was going on down the street to notice the drunk who had just stumbled out of a cab.

Neal was reminded then of why he had only ever tried the hard drugs once and then steered clear. They messed with his head, with his coordination, and when your brain was the only thing keeping you and the girl you were madly in love with in beer and cold pizza, you needed to keep that brain as healthy and as honed as possible.

And speaking of brains, Neal straightened his still dripping suit and realized too late that he had left his wallet in the back of the cab. He spun around, nearly toppling over, but the yellow taxi had taken its spicy fish smell and his wallet and fled. 

No matter. As soon as Neal got back to White Collar, Peter would take care of everything. Peter always took care of everything. He’d come to save him in that clinic when people tried to drug him that last time. Those terrible orderlies in their white uniforms who had strapped him to that table and pumped him so full of sedatives he could hardly walk after. Neal shuddered, and not because he was cold. But because he could still feel that needle sliding into his arm. Into his neck. The utter helplessness of being restrained. The blank faces of the men who had done it…

Peter could have lost his job for helping Neal that day, but he’d done it anyway. Peter was his friend. 

Neal loved Peter, he decided with a smile. 

He was like the big brother Neal never had. It was just that no one could ever tell Mozzie. Because Neal was pretty sure he’d made that same declaration of love to his bespectacled friend once, too. Though Mozzie was more like the crazy conspiracy theorist uncle no one liked to talk about at family reunions. 

Neal loved Mozzie, too. It was just different.

Neal staggered up the block a bit and then stopped to look up. The buildings towered over him, like rocket ships protruding from the sidewalk, ready for takeoff. 

He wondered what it might feel like to fly up there. How high he might have to go before he reached the same height as the Brooklyn Bridge. Would it feel the same? Impacting the concrete instead of the water? And what would Peter think if he flew up there?

Neal chuckled at that.

He would have a heart attack, that’s what Peter would do. But they’d laugh about it later. 

Neal closed his eyes. Put his arm out like Superman would do and his feet lift from the street. The wind whipped through his hair and he knew if he opened his eyes, he would find that he had begun to fly.

Up, up and away. Away from everything. Shorty and his psychotic sidekick. Kate. The FBI. 

Maybe even Peter.

But he didn’t go up. In fact, his feet were still firmly planted on the ground when he finally opened his eyes again, much to his disappointment. No matter though, he’d already wasted enough time as it was. 

With one last sidelong glance up at the buildings, Neal kept walking.

There were too many people on the street, so Neal chose a side door not many people knew about to make his entrance. He made it a game of sorts, ducking behind columns or around corners every time someone approached him. He reached the elevators without even being seen and winked at the desk agent just as the doors began to close and she looked up.

Everything was going to be ok. He was back with the people who could help him make sense of everything that had happened and he collapsed against the wall of the elevator in relief. He was so completely over this damn drugged feeling. He wanted off this ride.

The elevator came to a stop and there was cheerful ding as the doors opened for him, though Neal had no memory of even punching the button for his floor. No matter, he’d reached his destination and felt a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He staggered in through the double doors and announced merrily, “Hi honey, I’m home!”

The room went deadly silent as every pair of eyes in the joint landed on him in an instant. It was so like this morning in the storage facility, Neal couldn’t help but chuckle. 

“I take it they’re not here yet.” he said, echoing the same words he’d spoken to Joe and Benny and Jack and Caleb only a few short hours ago. Was that how long it had been since this morning? His head ached just trying to think about it.

“Freeze Caffrey! Down on your knees.”

Before Neal could even react, unforgiving hands were wrapping around his bicep. He was yanked forward off his feet. He half expected to go down. Instead he went sideways, his upper torso and face getting smashed onto the top of the nearest desk. His desk, he noticed, as its contents scattered across the floor and someone pulled his hands behind his back. And the movement wasn’t gentle. Had he been in control of all his faculties at the moment, he imagined it might even have hurt. For now, he was far too high.

“Easy on the suit!” he joked. “I just had it waxed.”

“You think this is funny, asshole?” someone spit in his face. “Where is Agent Jones? What have you done with him?”

_Jones. Oh god._

“What in the hell are you doing? Get off of him!”

It was like the parting of the Red Sea. Peter’s voice reached Neal through the haze of his drugged confusion and pulled him up out of the muck. Well, a little bit at least. He still grinned like a buffoon when the pressure left his back and he was unceremoniously hauled back up to his feet. 

“Peter. Thank god.”

His handler all but sprinted up to him and soon there was a warm hand resting on the side of his face. He tried to close his eyes, lean into it, savor the comfort of it for just a moment, but Peter was demanding his attention.

“Neal, what happened? Are you ok?”

“I think I fell.”

The rest of the world fell away. It was just him and Peter now. He would have reached out to grab the front of the agent’s shirt had his hands not been handcuffed behind his back.

“I think they drugged me. They crashed our car and then Jones…”

“Where is Agent Jones, Mr. Caffrey,” an unfamiliar voice demanded, breaking down the walls of their little inner sanctum. Neal glanced over and locked eyes with an angry looking man who reminded him a bit of Tall Boy. His hair was the same shade of unnatural black that Tall Boy’s cap had been. He instantly gave Neal the heebie jeebies.

“What have you done with Agent Jones?” the man asked again, louder this time.

“Mr. Leech, please!” Peter interrupted and a lightbulb went off in Neal’s head so suddenly, it nearly startled him. So this was the infamous Robert Leech. The man who had single handedly ruined Neal’s entire morning in one fell swoop. Eyeing the crabby looking man again, Neal decided right then and there that he detested the man and that they were destined to become mortal enemies. He even opened his mouth to say as much, but Peter stopped him.

“Eyes on me, Neal,” his handler demanded, pulling Neal’s focus back. The hand that had been cupping the side of his face dropped to his shoulder. Neal forced himself to meet Peter’s gaze. “Are you ok?”

Neal thought about it for a moment. It was so hard to tell with the drugs. With the thoughts. With the shadows. 

“I think so,” he said after a beat.

“Then I need you to tell me what happened, Neal. I need you to focus and tell me what happened to Jones?”

Neal searched and searched his memories, but like every other time he’d tried before, the effort just left him feeling tired and nauseous. “I…” He dropped his chin to his chest. “I don’t remember.”

“A likely story,” Leech muttered, but Peter ignored him so Neal did too.

“Think harder. How about the bridge? Was he on the bridge with you?”

Neal tried. He really did. “I think so? I think there were two of them. They...”

“Were these your accomplices, Mr. Caffrey? What did you and these men do with Agent Jones?”

“Oh for the love of…” Peter fumed, dropping his hands from Neal’s shoulders to round on Leech fully this time. Neal mourned the loss of the connection almost instantly. He was a flight risk. Surely Peter could see that. He needed those hands to keep his feet firmly planted on the ground.

“Caffrey is back. Clearly, he wasn’t running from us.” Something warm filled Neal’s chest as he watched his handler stand his ground and defend his honor. “Instead of jumping to conclusions let's just pump the brakes here for a second and take some time to think about this.”

Neal flicked his eyes over to Leech who was in the process of folding his arms over his chest. The man leveled Peter with an amused yet condescending glare. “Well then, by all means Agent Burke. Please enlighten us on how you feel these proceedings should continue.”

Neal watched Peter’s jaw clench before he spoke. “Look at him, Mr. Leech. Neal has obviously been drugged and doesn’t know what he’s saying. All I’m suggesting is that we get him into some dry clothes, get a cup of coffee in him, and then go into the conference room and talk this out like rational adults.”

It seemed perfectly logical to Neal. 

“And give this convicted felon a chance to come up with a cleverly concocted explanation for his whereabouts today?” Leech shot back, brows raised. “I think not, Agent Burke.”

“Hey!” Neal started to protest, but one look from Peter had him snapping his mouth shut again.

It was one of those patented Peter Burke looks. And one he had been giving Neal since his first day on the job. 

_Not another word_ , it warned. _Let me handle this_ , it said. It was Peter’s universal sign for _Damn it, Neal._ _Shut your piehold and let me handle this_. 

Well, Neal was only too happy to oblige. He was with it enough to remember that when Peter Burke gave you that look, you listened. It was a very FBI look. 

Neal started slightly when he realized his handler was still staring at him. Apparently Peter was not willing to look away until Neal showed some sign that he understood he was done talking. He got the point. He nodded once. 

“Do you take me for a fool, Agent Burke?” Leech sneered in that condescending way of his as Peter turned back around. It looked to Neal as though the agent had a very different answer in his head to the one he eventually gave.

“Of course not. I’m only asking that you please give my CI a minute to get cleaned up and collect his thoughts.”

The group of agents that had gathered around to watch the show stepped in closer in anticipation of what might happen next. Neal imagined them with pitchforks, angry townsfolk with an ax to grind and a monster to fight. And Neal was the monster. 

Because, he realized with a sudden clarity that nearly toppled him over - the Marshals standing behind him were the only thing that stopped him - Shorty and Tall Boy had cut his anklet. And Jones was no longer with him.

The pieces were all starting to slide into place in Neal’s brain like the tumblers of a lock. A lock he was picking.

They all thought he had done something to Jones. Quiet, contemplative Jones who gave his compliments out as carefully as he did his respect. Neal hadn’t done anything to the man, of course. How could he? He abhorred violence and liked Jones. They were on their way to becoming friends (he hoped). But Leech couldn’t see that, and didn’t know Neal in the way Peter and Jones did. He was just figures on a spreadsheet to this man and someone had to make him see. Someone had to make him understand. 

“I didn’t do anything.”

A hand appeared on his chest.

“I’m serious, Peter!”

“Not another word, Neal. I mean it. _Shut up._ ” The agent’s words were sharp and caught Neal completely off guard. He once again met the eyes of his handler and this time there was nothing but cold anger behind them. An anger that was no longer directed at Leech, but Neal instead. The wounds it left behind stung more than he cared to admit.

“Agent Burke, I’ve heard enough. Neal Caffrey is to be remanded into the custody of the US Marshals pending a full investigation into his escape from FBI custody and the suspected murder of Agent Clinton Jones.”

An angry murmur rose up in the crowd. The torches were lit, their flames licking high. 

“M-murder?” Neal stammered.

“Now wait just a godman minute,” Peter bellowed at the same time.

Leech was in the agent’s face in an instant. “I would think very carefully about the next few words that come out of your month, Agent Burke. May I remind you that I am a representative of the DOJ and therefore your superior? You will obey my orders and step aside.”

Neal was grabbed roughly from behind as one of the Marshal’s began dragging him away and towards the front doors.

“Peter, what are they talking about?” he pleaded, searching for his handler in the sea of confused faces swirling around him. He couldn’t keep any of them straight.

“Neal, listen to me,” Peter hissed in his ear, suddenly appearing at his side. Leech was gone, having disappeared into the churning crowd. “Don’t struggle. Just go with them and keep your head down.”

“But I didn’t do anything!” he tried to explain even as he struggled against the Marshals doing everything in their power to drag him away.

“What did I just say, Neal? _Shut your mouth.”_

Neal’s anger flared again. He was seething. A level of rage he’d never felt before consuming all the blood in his veins until he was nothing but fire. Peter was supposed to be the one who helped. Now he was just standing there as the Marshals dragged him away.

“I’m serious,” Peter called out as the distance between them grew. Someone was holding Peter back now. Neal was pretty sure it was Hughes.

“Use your head. Whatever they drugged you with will wear off eventually. Don’t tell them anything until that happens. Do you understand me?”

“Seriously Burke?” one of Neal’s Marshals said. Peter ignored him.

“You’ve got to think, Neal. I know it’s difficult right now, but you’ve got to use your brain!”

Peter was giving up and something dislodged in Neal’s chest as he watched it happen right there in front of his eyes. His handler, his friend, was delivering him into the hands of Leech and his goons. 

Blood that should have been ice cold in his veins began to boil away. Neal had been betrayed, forsaken, abandoned by the very people who had promised to always keep him safe. Perhaps it was just the drugs talking, but he was pretty sure in that moment that he would never again trust another government agent. He was done with them all.

Neal lost sight of his traitorous handler as he was pulled out of the office and towards the main elevators. The doors slid open and there was Shorty, standing in the middle of the elevator, the flesh hanging from his bones and his clothes in tatters. He looked out at Neal from a decaying skull missing one of its eyes. 

The rational part of his brain, that small part of it that was left to him anyways, tried to convince him that it was just another hallucination, but Neal freaked out all the same. He began fighting against the men holding him in earnest, refusing to enter the elevator with Shorty still standing there. 

“Get the fuck in, Caffrey!” someone snapped. They were forcing him in, but Neal was too lost to the drugs to even register what they were saying. The last thing he remembered as electricity began coursing through his body and freezing up his muscles was Shorty standing over him in the elevator. He was smiling down at him with half a face as the world dimmed and then disappeared entirely.


	7. Penny for your Thoughts

“Did you see the way he looked at me?” Peter asked Hughes as the two men watched Neal get dragged into the elevator by the Marshals and disappear from sight.

“There’s nothing you could have done,” Hughes reminded him. “Leech is a powerful man, Peter. You need to remember that. That’s the reason I held you back so often today. He will take everything you did here today and use it against you. You need to follow your own advice and use your brain.”

Peter glanced over to the conference room where Leech and his posse were gathering up their things. “That man got exactly what he came here for today.”

“I know.”

“They need to take him to a hospital, Reece,” Peter said, turning to his boss. “If he really just took a header into the East River…” the idea still sounded preposterous in his head, “then he could have some serious internal injuries. He needs medical attention.”

“These are the Marshals, Peter, not the gestapo,” Hughes pointed out. “If Caffrey needs medical attention, then they’ll see he gets it.”

“I know that,” Peter replied, though part of him wondered what kind of influence Leech might have on the Marshals once he arrived at their offices. The man in question breezed out of the conference room a moment later carrying little more than a slim black briefcase.

“My people will finish boxing up the rest of Neal Caffrey’s files. I assume your office will be cooperating fully with the Marshals’ investigation?”

“Of course,” Hughes replied.

Robert Leech turned his cold, unfeeling eyes toward Peter. “As for you, Agent Burke, my office will be in contact with you in the morning. Your behavior today will not be without consequences.”

Leech turned back to Hughes before Peter could say anything. He struggled to keep his cool, Hughes earlier warning on repeat in his head.  _ Use your brain. _

“Reece, I expect your men to stand down and let the US Marshals handle the investigation of your missing Agent and Neal Caffrey.”

“Is that really necessary?” Hughes said quickly before Peter could voice his rather unflattering opinion of that idea. Just as well. He was on thin ice as it was. “Jones is my agent, my office should be leading the investigation.”

“That is precisely why the DOJ’s orders are for the White Collar division to stand down,” Leech said before leaning in and patting Hughes awkwardly on the shoulder. “You’re too close to this one, Reece. Your people will have enough to deal with over the betrayal they’ve suffered at the hands of Neal Caffrey.”

Peter bit down hard on the inside of his cheek. He formed his hands into fists and the fingernails broke the skin. But he didn’t care. He welcomed the pain, because it was the only thing keeping him from committing capital murder right there in the middle of the office.

“If that’s the order from DC, then of course we’ll comply,” Hughes responded diplomatically. 

Leech seemed satisfied enough with his answer and began heading for the door. He paused just inside and turned around to give the entire office one final disapproving look. When he was finally gone, it was like a dam breaking. Every agent working was up and out of their seats, crowding in around Peter and Hughes, demanding more information on what happened. They dispersed quickly though when Peter reminded them that Leech’s people were still in the building and they needed to keep their heads down for the moment.

“Sit tight,” Peter told them, the same worry building up in the pit of his stomach evident on their faces as well. The agents under his command loved Neal. Not all of them would admit it, but Caffrey’s natural charm and easy smile had won them all over. They knew as well as Peter did that what was being done to him was wrong, and completely unfair. He knew they would all rise to the occasion and help him get to the bottom of all this as soon as he said the word. 

And they had to get to the bottom of things. When Neal had been taken away, he didn’t look so good and Peter wasn’t as convinced as Hughes that the Marshals would treat him well. Not with Leech there. Then add that to the fact that Peter couldn’t remember the last time he’d read about someone surviving a jump off the Brooklyn Bridge, and his worry only increased. And then there had been that look. That look of pure loathing and complete and utter betrayal Neal had sent him before the Marshals got him to the elevator. Even so, Peter was not about to sit idly by and let Robert Leech walk all over his CI. He slipped into Hughes’ office once everything died down a bit and collapsed into one of the director’s visitor chairs.

“I’m not going to stand down,” he informed his boss.

Hughes regarded him over the coffee cup he had just picked up. “Nor would I expect you too.”

“I want to head out to the bridge and start looking for Jones. He’s the key to this, I can feel it.”

“Well, I just got off the phone with DC and it looks like our DOJ friend might have jumped the gun a bit. We’re not allowed to interfere with Caffrey’s investigation in any way, but they had nothing to say about us looking into Jones’ disappearance.”

Peter thought about that for a moment. “I don’t like the idea of leaving Neal to fend for himself with those bloodsuckers. Someone from our office should be there as a liaison.”

“And under normal circumstances, I’d completely agree with you, Burke. But my marching orders are clear. White Collar is to have no contact with Neal Caffrey or interfere in his investigation in any way until the Marshals are finished with him.”

“This entire thing stinks to high heaven, you know that right?” Peter said darkly.

Hughes set his coffee cup down with a sigh. “I do. I could tell the moment Leech walked into the offices this morning that something wasn’t right,”

“Do you think he’s the one driving it?” Peter asked. “Or is there someone else pulling the strings?”

“Why don’t I make some phone calls while you're at the bridge. I’ll see what I can find out and then we can touch base once you get back.”

Peter was fine with that and stood up from his chair.

“You don’t think Jones…” but Peter couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence. The thought that something had happened to his friend was just not something he was ready to face quite yet.

“Let’s follow our own advice and not jump to conclusions until we know all the facts,” Hughes suggested and Peter nodded.

He grabbed his winter coat from his office, and then headed for the FBI parking garage. His car was freezing and sounded for a moment like it wasn't going to start, but eventually the engine sputtered to life, and Peter pulled out into traffic. Jones’ absence from the passenger seat was keenly felt. If these were normal circumstances, the agent would be with him now, listening to Peter’s theories and offering up some of his own. He would have been on Neal’s side too. His loss today would have lasting ramifications, Peter could feel it. To distract himself from that feeling, Peter placed a call to Elizabeth.

“Hello?” she answered on the first ring. Peter was relieved, he was sick to death of voicemails.

“El?”

“Oh honey. What’s wrong?” As was her way, Elizabeth had picked up on his agitation almost immediately. If she had been in the car with him he would have leaned over and kissed her.

“What  _ isn’t _ wrong,” he replied dejectedly.

“Uh oh. What’s Neal done now?”

“That’s just it,” Peter said on a heavy sigh. I don’t think he has done anything.”

“Tell me everything,” El replied.

And Peter did. He told her everything, including his fears for Neal and Jones. She listened in silence as he spoke, and he didn’t reach the end of his tale until he was pulling up behind a police cruiser blocking the entrance to the Brooklyn Bridge.

“Peter Burke, you call me the minute you get any information on Clint, ok?”

“Of course.” A uniformed officer approached his car window and Peter flashed his badge

“I gotta go, El. I promise I’ll call the minute I know something.”

“Alright. I love you, Peter.”

“I love you too, hun.” Peter ended the call and then stepped out of his vehicle. It was absolutely freezing out in the open with the sun beginning to set behind those ever present grey clouds. He pulled his coat in closer to his body and approached the officer.

“Peter Burke, FBI. Could you tell me where I might find the detective in charge?”

The officer scrutinized his badge for a moment and then stepped away to talk privately into his radio. While he waited, Peter dug his already numb hands into his pockets and wondered how in the hell Neal had managed to get all the way from the Brooklyn Bridge back to their offices in nothing but the clothes on his back. No coat, no hat, no gloves. He must have been freezing. Peter could only hope the Marshals had noticed that too and would make sure he was ok.

“Detective Murphy says to wait here,” the officer informed him a moment later. “He’ll be right over.”

Peter nodded, letting a smile break over his freezing cold face. Murphy was an old friend. And the kind of friend who would get him access to anything he might need, regardless of jurisdiction. Peter’s day had just gotten a whole hell of a lot better.

“Well, well, well. As I live and breathe. If it ain’t Special Agent Peter Burke of the FBI!” Donald Murphy, or Don to his friends, greeted Peter with a warm smile and outstretched hand. Peter took it and then ducked under the police tape Murphy held up for him.

“I almost didn’t believe it when I heard your name over the radio. What are you doing here, Petey?” A large hand was clapped on his shoulder, nearly knocking Peter over.

Don Murphy was a stocky, yet very well built man in his early 50s with a wide smile, mischievous eyes, and a hairline most guys his age would kill for. He was as good a friend as anyone could ever hope for, though despite the pleasant first impression he often gave, Peter knew that Don was not the kind of man you wanted to mess with, or be on the other side of an interrogation room table from. There was a hardness to him, gained from his years of experience on the force as an inner city beat cop. Experience that had made him one of the youngest, and most decorated detectives in NYPD history. Peter had known him since middle school.

“I’ve got a case going that might be related,” Peter explained, pointedly ignoring Murphy’s use of a nickname he really wished had never been given to him. He ran down the events of the day, leaving out the Leech details.

Murphy scratched the side of his face in contemplation. “Well, contrary to what Fox News keeps reporting, we really don’t have much to go on. It appears to be some kind of fender bender gone terribly wrong. You sure it’s FBI related?”

“Pretty sure. Your jumper might have been my CI.”

“Your shitting me!”

“I’m not."

“How do you know it was him?”

“He showed up at our offices about an hour ago.”

“Holy shit!” Don exclaimed. “And he survived?” Peter nodded. “Well I’ll be damned.”

“I wasn’t able to get much out of him. He’s with the US Marshals now.”

“Any chance I could talk to him?” Murphy asked hopefully.

“I actually need you to keep that info under your cap for a bit, Donny. At least until I get a clearer picture of what happened here today. I’m under a lot of scrutiny at work for this.”

“Of course, Petey, of course. Anything you need.”

They’d nearly reached the main crime scene by now. The NYPD had lit the place with giant flood lights in an effort to combat against the gathering dusk. As they walked, Peter began finding evidence of the forensics team’s work. There were yellow cones with numbers printed on them dotting the street, marking the places where Peter guessed they had found shell casings or other such evidence. Shattered glass from broken windows winked in the light.

“Whatever happened here, it wasn’t pretty,” Don began to explain. “Far as we can tell, that Ford Tempo was forced off the road and into that concrete pylon.” 

Peter looked in the direction Murphy had pointed, recognizing the little Ford Jones had gotten out of FBI impound that morning. The compact car was completely decimated, its entire front end smashed inwards. 

Peter swallowed. “And the driver?”

“Taken by ambulance to New York Presbyterian. He one of yours too? We didn’t find any ID on him.”

Peter nodded. “My guys were undercover, so it’s possible.”

“Well, witnesses say they saw two guys helping the passenger out of the car. That’s where things got hairy. Apparently there’s an altercation between these two guys and the passenger. One of them gets pushed out into traffic and… well… I think my guys are still scraping bits of that one off the pavement if you want to go have a look.” 

“I think I’ll pass.”

“Probably for the best.” Don chuckled before continuing.

“From there the passenger apparently takes off running. He gets chased by the other good samaritan, or bad samaritan I guess we should call him, who starts firing off shot after shot. Pow! Pow! Pow!” Don shot finger guns down the street. “Passenger guy jumps the barrier, and, well, the rest you can watch on repeat tonight oM the news. Fucking vultures.”

Peter glanced around at the carnage on the bridge, trying to imagine Neal caught in the middle of it all and fighting for his life. His CI must have gone through something truly heinous, and now he was with the Marshals, and who knew what new tortures they would put him through.

“Have you ID’d anyone yet?” Peter asked, forcing those thoughts aside for the moment.

“Not yet, but maybe you could help me in that department oh Petey, old pal?”

Peter smiled. “I would if I could Don, but like I said, I’ve got a lot of eyes on me with this one. It's probably best we just let your forensic department run the prints and then contact the bureau if they come back to any of my guys.”

They were near the destroyed Ford now and Peter resisted the urge to look away from the sight of the blood coating the steering wheel. There was blood on the shattered passenger window as well. Neal’s window, if Jones had been driving. 

“Off the record then?” Don asked. Peter knew Don could be trusted, and that that trust was a two way street. He didn’t hesitate in answering this time.

“Clinton Jones and Neal Caffrey.”

“Ok,” Don said with a nod. “I’ll keep those names in my back pocket and if any of the prints flag, you’ll be my first call.”

“Will you let me know if you identify the shooter, too? I assume he got away?”

“You got it and yes. My guys are working through street cam footage as we speak trying to see if we caught his plates.”

Peter held a hand out to the detective. “Thanks Don. You’re a good friend.”

“Like I said, anything for you Petey,” Don replied, shaking back. “But you are going to owe me so many beers at Rosa’s after all this.”

Peter couldn’t help but laugh. “Isn’t there some rule out there that states you owe ME a beer for every time you call me Petey?”

“Not in any rule book I’ve ever seen!” Don replied.

“Guess we’ll just have to call up some of the other guys and find out.”

“You have fun doing that at your posh job FBI guy. Us real detectives have too much work to do.”

“Don Murphy, always the consummate asshole,”

“Don’t you know it,” Don winked at him. “But in all seriousness Pete, I really hope this one works out for you and that your guys are alright. All your guys.”

“I’ll keep you in the loop,” Peter promised, shaking Don’s hand again.

The two men parted company and then Peter found himself making the long trek back to his car on his own. He used the time to run the events of the past several days back through his mind. For whatever reason, someone had apparently run Neal and Jones off the road, cut Neal’s anklet, and then, at least by witnesses accounts, tried to kidnap him. Only Neal had been able to escape and finally get away from his would be captors by jumping off the bridge. What he couldn’t decide on is whether or not he believed Robert Leech had anything to do with it, or if this had just been some happy coincidence for him. The theory seemed weak at best, but there was no denying that Leech showing up on today of all days, and acting the way he did to Neal’s anklet being cut was suspicious. But why go to all the trouble? Why such an elaborate ruse? Was it just to get Neal in trouble? As far as Peter knew, Leech and Neal didn’t have any history together, so what was the motive?

A headache began to creep up on Peter as he neared his car. What he needed to do was get over to the hospital and see if Jones was there. Finding Jones seemed to be the missing peace to everything. To understanding exactly what happened and proving Neal had no business being held and interrogated by the Marshals. To show Leech that everything he thought about Neal was wrong, that his anklet had been cut against his will, and he wasn’t running from the FBI, he was running from some lunatic with a gun. He just needed to prove it. So the first thing Peter did once he reached his car was plug in the address for New York Pres into the GPS and head out. As he traversed the Manhattan streets with lights and sirens engaged for good measure, he tried not to imagine what he might find if Jones turned up at the hospital after all. There had been so much blood on that steering wheel.

Peter pushed his foot a little harder on the gas, and sped off into the gathering dark.


	8. Imbeciles, All of Them

The pain was the first thing he registered, the first hint that whatever it was they had drugged him with had finally worn off. It was everywhere, too. A full body ache that made him cry out when he lifted his head from his arms and attempted to sit up. Muscles he hadn’t even known existed spasmed painfully and he let his head thud back down onto his arm with a moan. 

He was sitting in a chair, that much he could tell, and that chair was pushed up to a table. A cold table. He was resting his head on his arms and his hunched back wasn’t very happy about it. He attempted to sit up again, but the pain came back, brighter than ever, forcing him back down. Neal groaned into the tabletop yet again.

He sat there for a long time, just letting the awareness return to his body slowly. It wasn’t just his upper body muscles that hurt. Every part of him hurt, throbbing in time with his heart. Every inch of him felt like one big massive bruise and moving only made things worse. So he took it slow, starting with his toes and then working his way up to his thighs, loosening up muscles that were stiff with abuse and disuse. He was pretty sure what he was feeling was the beating his poor body had taken hitting the water after jumping off the bridge.

Memories of that horrible freefall came back to him suddenly. As did all of the events leading up to his trip into the East River. What he couldn’t really grasp, however, was everything that had happened  _ after _ he pulled himself out of the water. He knew Peter had been there and that he was incredibly pissed at the man, but the memories were confusing. 

There didn’t seem to be any rational explanation for it, but every time Neal’s thoughts drifted to his handler, his blood turned to ice. He was angry, only he didn’t know why. The memories he had were just incoherent flashes of feelings and blurry snapshots of moments that made no sense. He remembered desperation and helplessness, terror and horrific visions of things that made him crazy and sent him running. 

He remembered falling. 

He was always falling. Falling in love, and then back out. Falling in and out of trouble, in and out of lives, losing and gaining only to turn around and then lose it all over again. 

But trying to delve too deep into those memories after the river just made him want to vomit, so he stopped trying and went back to slowly working out all the painful kinks in his muscles. When it finally came time to try and sit up again, Neal braced himself. Using the table for support, he slowly straightened up in his chair. It was painful, but manageable, so he risked cracking his eyes open for the first time.

It was a huge, gigantic mistake.

The harsh white light of the room seared into his corneas and ignited a headache so terrible he worried it might be the start of one of his epic migraines. He squeezed his eyes shut against the light and the pain but it had already sent him over the edge. He had no choice but to lean over and retch pitifully all over the carpet beneath his feet. When it was over, he could do little more than sit there and pant through the pain with his head in his hands. Congested sinuses made themselves known and Neal suspected, were he to try and use his voice right now, it would sound like the wrong end of a gravel truck. There was also faint wheezing in his lungs every time he took a breath. His bronchitis was making a reappearance.

_Great._ Just what he needed.

Keeping his eyes closed against the stabbing light, Neal continued working out his impossibly tight muscles. His neck was the worst and he hissed when his fingertips massaged into a particularly tender spot. 

The place where his kidnappers had drugged him. 

Neal skipped that bit and tried not to think back to Shorty and Tall Boy. They were the ones who were responsible for getting him into this mess. Shorty had already gotten his comeuppance. Tall Boy... well, who knew where that guy was now. Probably off somewhere plotting his revenge against Neal for killing his friend. 

Neal winced at the reminder. It had been a complete accident of course, but his actions had led to Shorty getting hit by that truck and that still gnawed at him. He knew, once he started to feel better - once the pain wasn’t there to keep him distracted - that vision of Shorty getting hit by the truck was going to haunt him. Probably for the rest of his life.

“Well look who finally decided to join the land of the living.”

The door to his room was opened and this time Neal had to force his eyes open. The feeling of someone jabbing pitchforks in behind his eyes was less but the light sensitivity was still there, along with a telltale throb behind his left eyeball. A migraine was on the horizon. Soon he would start seeing auras and this entire ordeal would become ten times worse.

“Hands on the table, Caffrey.” 

Cold steel was snapped around each wrist. There was a longer than normal chain between the cuffs and this was affixed to a small metal ring welded to the top of Neal’s table. He was in an interrogation room with padded white walls and a one way mirror to his right. He was also still in the same clothes he’d been in when he’d jumped into the river and the stink coming off them was revolting. He smelled of pollution and decay and it made him want to throw up again.

Neal winced up at his visitors instead. There were two of them, both Marshals, according to the plastic badges clipped to their lapels. In his head he immediately named them Thing One and Thing Two.

“I should probably see a doctor,” he informed Thing One as soon as the man had finished securing his legs under the table. As expected, his voice sounded just like the wrong end of a gravel truck.

“He’s already been and given you a clean bill of health. So suck it up, Caffrey.” 

Thing One was an angry Marshal, apparently. He looked to be in his early 40s and there was an impressive physique underneath his rather wrinkled and ill-fitting suit. Neal had the feeling, were he in the emotional or physical state to try running at this point, Thing One would have easily overtaken him. Or beat the shit out of him, for that matter. But he also had an air of newness about him, like this might be his first rodeo, which struck Neal as humorous. What were the Marshals thinking?

“Then how about some water and a few aspirin?” Neal tried instead. He wasn’t going to last long if they didn’t at least give him a little something for the pain.

Thing One glanced over at Thing Two, giving him some kind of nonverabal queue. A moment later Thing Two stalked out of the room, huffing something about being nobody’s errand boy under his breath. Thing One just stood there beside the door with arms folded over his chest until his partner returned. A small glass of water in a paper cup was placed in front of him, as were several small white capsules. They looked harmless enough, so Neal knocked them back along with the entire contents of the cup. The water was deliciously cool and felt amazing on his throat, but there wasn’t enough of it, and it did nothing to ease the ache. An ache he was only now just noticing. Well, that and the strange way his lungs refused to expand all the way when he tried to take in a full breath. Broken ribs perhaps? The pain was certainly in the right place.

Thing One and Thing Two sat themselves down in the chairs on the other side of the interrogation table and Neal was finally able to read the names on their badges. They were called Wilson and White, and they made no attempts at introduction. The one called Wilson just slapped a thick file down on the table and flipped it open.

“So, Mr. Caffrey, mind telling us the current whereabouts of Agent Jones?”

“Well, I don’t know Mr. Wilson. Do you mind calling my lawyer?” Neal said back, or croaked back rather.

Thing Two - no,  _ White _ \- threw his head back to laugh. He was a short man in a much nicer suit with an impressive handlebar mustache Neal would have complimented him on had he not been trying to interrogate him at the moment. “I thought you were supposed to be smart or something.”

“You’re being accused of some pretty serious crimes here, Caffrey,” Wilson added.

“ _ Alleged _ crimes,” Neal corrected, swallowing gingerly around the ache in his throat.

“Then if that’s the case, why not tell us what happened and clear the air. Before the lawyers get involved and muck it all up and you have to go back to prison while we try to iron out all the details.”

These two were amateurs and Neal couldn’t help but wonder what on earth had possessed the US Marshals to send in these two chuckleheads. Hadn’t they even bothered to read his file? Neal  _ was _ alleged. His entire reputation was  _ alleged _ . There was nothing real about him. He was a ghost, a myth, a creation of his own making, and he was about to run circles around these buffoons. Make them wish they’d never grappled with the likes of Neal Caffrey. 

_ This was going to be so much fun _ , he thought gleefully. 

If only he weren’t on the verge of a migraine and in pain from head to toe.

Neal sat back - slowly of course, and only as far as his shackles would allow - and regarded his interrogators. They were sitting forward in their chairs, two hungry dogs after a bone. Well, Neal figured there was no harm in throwing them one at least. It would be the truth, anyways. Just like Peter had always taught him. What these two idiots chose to do with that truth, well, that was another matter entirely. Still, Neal sighed and began the entire sordid tale from the very beginning. Wilson and White let him talk for the most part, bless their hearts, and only really started in on their pathetic attempts at interrogation once he was finished.

“So you left the storage facility with Agent Jones at 11:45.”

“11:46,” Neal corrected.

“And headed west on Ford?”

“West on South.”

“What did you and Jones talk about?”

“What do you think we talked about? My kickass undercover skills, of course.”

White wrote something down in his notebook. “What time did you hit traffic?”

“Like I told you, 12:01.”

“Not 12:15?”

Neal had to keep himself from smiling. “Now officer White, you wouldn’t be trying to trip me up on a little detail like that, would you?” He hated the way his sinuses made him sound so nasally. 

Neal reached up to rub his hands over his face and massage around his eyes. The tylenol had kicked in, but his entire body still ached, his head especially. The constant questions were not helping matters much, either. White and Wilson probably thought they were wearing him down. Neal didn't have the heart to tell the imbeciles that he was just exhausted from a day of physical battering. He had, after all, just jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge. People seemed to keep forgetting about that.

“12:01, fine,” White snapped. “What happened next.” 

Neal recited his whole tale again. Every word, verbatim. By the time he was done, Wilson’s face was turning a funny shade of red, although he was trying to hide it.

“Alright guys, listen,” Neal leveled with them. “You got me, ok? There's a confession I've just got to make, and it's a big one. You ready?” 

Neal leaned forward. Wilson and White followed suit, their eyes shining with anticipation.

“I really, really, _really_ ,” he paused for dramatic effect, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “gotta use the bathroom.”

White swore rather creatively and threw himself back in his chair. Wilson just stared at Neal, mouth opening and closing as his face turned from red to almost puce.

“Well I’m not doing it,” White declared when Wison finally looked away and over to his partner.

Wilson got up with a frustrated sigh and retrieved a set of keys from his pocket. He disconnected Neal from the ring, but left the shackles around his wrists and feet in place. Getting up was going to be interesting and a groan was torn from his aching throat when Wilson stood him up. It was like all the work he’d done on his muscles had been in vain. They all seized up on him at once and he had no choice but to sag against Wilson to keep from collapsing.

“Jesus Christ, Caffrey. Pull yourself together,” the man said, looking disgusted. Neal tried his best and half shuffled, half limped himself out of the room with Wilson on his tail. 

The restroom was thankfully not far and Neal was allowed to do his business in private. The spartan space was devoid of even the smallest of decorations, not that Neal was in any condition to run even if there had been something in there he could use. He used the facilities and then turned to the sink to wash his hands. The face that stared back at him was hardly recognizable. Neal was shocked and lightly touched the side of his face in wonder. There was a gash just above his eye that had been haphazardly pulled shut with butterfly bandages that were barely getting the job done. Dark bruises were forming along his left cheekbone and jawline. Everything else was puffy and stretched, with another white strip of bandage across the bridge of his nose. He looked like an accident victim. He  _ was _ an accident victim, he reminded himself, just as Wilson began to pound on the men’s room door.

“Do not make me come in there and collect you, Caffrey,” the Marshal warned through the door. Neal yanked it open as best he could with his shackled hands but only had the energy for an angry glare.

When they got back to the interrogation room, there was a bottle of water waiting on the table for him. 

“And here I thought you guys didn’t care,” he forced out as Wilson roughly shoved him back into his seat. His sore muscles were anything but quiet about it, but none of that mattered now. He grabbed for the water bottle as soon as he was resecured to the table and took a tentative sip. He half expected it to be spiked with something, but it was just water. Cool, delicious, refreshing water. He choked on it in his haste, though, and pretty soon he was bent over again, coughing up something disgusting that reminded him a bit of the East River. His two Marshals just sat there, waiting for him to finish with thinly veiled impatience.

“Alright. Playtime’s over, Caffrey. Tell us what you did with Jones,” Wilson demanded when Neal was finally able to sit up again. “You said he was driving the car, but NYPD reports are telling us that the guy they pulled from the wreck wasn’t FBI. Care to explain?”

Neal went to pinch the bridge of his nose then remembered it was likely broken and thought better of it. “I think you’ll find your answers in the statement I just gave you, gents.” He hated how weak his voice sounded now, how hoarse. “The driver they found in the car likely  _ is _ Agent Jones. We were working undercover. He might not have had his badge with him.”

“Are you trying to tell us that a seasoned federal agent was running around the streets of Manhattan without his badge?”

“You’d have to ask Agent Jones that question, I don’t speak for the man.”

“Not even if he’s dead?”

Neal nearly froze as he brought his water bottle up to his lips again. But only nearly. White was trying to do his best impression of a US Marshal again and it was honestly adorable. But Neal could tell the man was lying the moment he opened his mouth.

“If Agent Jones was really dead, you would have arrested me by now.”

“So you admit that he’s been murdered!” Wilson chimed in quickly.

“Oh please. That’s not what I said.”

Wilson leaned in over his file. “Come on Caffrey, admit it. Confess to what you did and give Jones’ mother the closure she deserves. Tell us what you did with him and all of this will be over.”

Neal had to resist the urge to roll his eyes. It would have aggravated his headache, for one. That beast had thankfully been tamed at least a little by the tylenol he’d been given. Secondly, he wasn’t ready to bust Wilson and White’s bubble quite yet. Memories from when he’d been drugged were coming back to him slowly. He may not remember why he had the sudden urge to throttle Peter every time he thought of the guy, but he did remember what the agent had told him before he was taken.

_ “Use your head. Whatever they drugged you with will wear off soon. Don’t tell them anything until that happens, ok? You’ve got to think, Neal. I know it’s difficult right now, but you’ve got to use your brain.” _

Neal straightened in his chair, or at least as much as he could with his hands still shackled and his entire body singing in pain. The aspirin had barely made a dent in that and he wondered how a request for more would be taken now that Wilson thought he had Neal on the ropes.

“Wow guys. I’m kinda shocked that your office hasn’t been able to track down one FBI Agent. Especially after I told you he was likely taken to the hospital after out accident. Kinda makes me wonder if maybe you guys don’t  _ want _ Agent Jones to be found. Do you two know him? Any particular reason you’d want him dead? ‘Cause that’s what I’m picking up on here. Either that, or this is just shoddy police work. And if that’s the case, then I think you two could really use some pointers from the FBI. Now they’re the ones who know how to chase down a lead.”

Wilson was doing that fish mouth thing again when Neal finished and Wade just sat in his chair with a bewildered look on his face.  _ Amateurs. _

“So what about the guy you pushed into traffic,” White added suddenly. “Is that guy still alive?” 

Neal couldn't school his features quick enough this time. The Marshals had picked up on the way those words had sliced right through him. Shorty’s death was still a sore subject.

“I told you before, that was self defense.”

“Really?” White asked, eyebrows raised. “Because the way we read the witness statements is that he was trying to help you after the crash and you went berserk and pushed him out into oncoming traffic.”

“I believe if you gentlemen were to read my first hand account again, you’d see that it was actually an accident and that I was acting in self defense,” Neal replied, working hard to keep his hoarse voice steady. It was nearly gone now.

A photo of the decimated remains of a human being were slapped in front of him. “That look like self defense to you, Caffrey?”

“No,” Neal replied, pushing the photo back towards Wlson. “That looks like roadkill.” 

He was starting to feel sick again. Wilson and White probably assumed it was because he was nervous. But Neal knew it was because he needed more painkillers, and something stronger than tylenol. His body was betraying him and there was nothing he could do about it.

Wilson picked the photo back up and studied it. “Pretty gruesome revenge for a guy who says he’s innocent.”

But Neal was done. Done with this interrogation and done with these two idiots. It was time to play his trump card. 

“If you’re so sure I’m guilty, then maybe it really is time we called my lawyer. I mean, don’t get me wrong. It’s been a real riot playing with you two  _ gentlemen _ , but I’m not saying another word until my chosen counsel arrives.” 

Surely he’d bought enough time for Peter to get what he needed to get Neal out of here. He had to have been sitting in this tiny little room for hours. Plenty of time for his handler to get to the bottom of this shitshow.

“Only guilty men need lawyers,” White pointed out. But Neal just sat back, zipping his mouth shut and throwing away the key like a petulant child. He would have folded his arms across his chest for good measure if his restraints hadn't been in the way.

Wilson was just about to rise from his chair and get in Neal’s face when the interrogation room door suddenly swung open and a very tall figure with unnaturally dark hair loomed in the doorway. 

Recognition flickered across Neal’s brain, bringing with it confused memories of loathing and vague accusations of murder. He knew this man.

“Get out,” the tall man ordered, stepping into the room. Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumb scrambled up out of their chairs in an instant. The door closed behind them as they fled with no explanation, leaving Neal and the tall man alone in the room.

_ Robert Leech _ his memory provided. The reason he was here in the first place. The true Suit. As deserving of the title as Peter was not.

Neal watched as Leech reached up and disconnected the wires to the room’s only surveillance camera. The little red light on its front faded to black, leaving Neal with an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Robert Leech turned and regarded him with a look of pure disgust. 

“I do have to commend you, Mr. Caffrey. The details of your exploits up on the bridge today are rather impressive.”

“Thank you?” Neal said, though it was more of a question than a statement. The room felt colder all of a sudden as Robert Leech stalked towards him. He was expecting another verbal game of cat and mouse, but Leech surprised the hell out of him by grabbing by the back of his neck and slamming his head down onto the table. The butterfly bandages gave up their fight and he could feel blood beginning to seep from the reopened wound on his forehead.

“Get off!” Neal growled.

“Admit what you did,” Leech hissed. Neal screwed his eyes shut again and tried not to be sick as Leech’s sour breath spilled over his skin and his head began pounding with renewed vigor. There would be no escaping the migraine now.

“You will tell those Marshals you murdered Agent Jones and cut your anklet to escape FBI custody or so help me god, I will ruin the lives of every single agent in White Collar down to the bitch who answers the phones. Everyone you ever worked with: fired or disgraced. I’ll tear their lives apart and make sure they all know exactly who’s to blame. And I’ll start with Peter Burke.”

Neal struggled to lift his head but Leech’s hold was firm. “Why? Why are you doing this?”

“Because dangerous criminals such as yourself don’t deserve special treatment from the federal government. Because you belong in a prison Mr. Caffrey, not some manhattan highrise, free to come and go as you please.”

Neal was finding it more and more difficult to draw in a proper breath with his head in this position, but Leech was not letting him up. His chest burned with the effort of filling his lungs.

“Now,” Leech continued, “do we understand one another?”

Neal didn’t answer. His silence seemed to enrage Leech who quickly switched tactics. He took a fistful of Neal’s hair and yanked his head back this time. The world winked out of existence for a fraction of a second as all the hurts in his body erupted at once and threatened to send him tumbling towards oblivion. There was no remorse in the eyes that were boring into his when he finally pried open his eyes again. 

Something clicked in Neal’s brain.

“Was it you?” he asked, his voice tight with pain. “Did you send those men to that bridge today to kidnap me?” The color of Leech’s eyes seemed to change, but Neal couldn’t tell if it was from confirmation or disgust. 

Leech let go of Neal’s hair and he fell forward. A hand on the table was the only thing that kept him upright.

“It was you, wasn’t it.” he ground out. He was pretty sure he was running a fever now. Sweat was trickling down his face, mixing with the blood. He ignored it though. Because for the briefest of moments, he thought Robert Leech seemed nervous.

Leech regarded Neal with a dangerous look that would have any normal man shaking in his boots. But Neal was not a normal man and until people started realizing that fact and taking him seriously, they would keep underestimating him. Leech seemed to be the kind of man who might underestimate him, get so wrapped up in his own self importance, his own arrogance, his own belief in an infallible plan, that Neal would have no problem pulling the rug out from under him… it was only a matter of time.

Leech straightened the front of his jacket and wiped the blood off his hands. “I’m going to send the Marshals in again, Mr. Caffrey. I suggest you take my advice and confess, otherwise I will make it my personal mission to destroy everything you hold dear.”

He stalked out of the room and Neal watched him go, wondering if the man was telling the truth, or just bluffing. He’d certainly gotten his way at White Collar today when he’d had Neal arrested. The question was, was he powerful enough to pull off his threat? A lot of innocent people, people he considered friends, might get hurt if he chose wrong.

Neal leaned forward so he could massage at his throbbing eyes. Determination had never staved off one of his migraines before, though he still tried. He had to keep his wits about him. He needed to stay sharp, especially now that Leech had thrown down the gauntlet.

Neal swiped at the blood and sweat that was dripping down the side of his face.

He would stay sharp. 

It was time for Neal Caffrey to show his true colors.


	9. Mr. Jones

Far away from the sirens and the noise of Manhattan, a figure crept along the back wall of an old abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of Bushwick. An old rusted out door still stood sentinel, but had long given up the fight. It’s fossilized hinges squeaked as a man pushed it open. There was no electricity running, though there was a generator in the back for when the nights got really cold. The place was lit instead by the ambient light that streamed in through filthy windows, most of them broken, and gaping holes in the roof. It was a small space, as far as warehouses went, and filled mostly by the broken possessions of previous tenants. It had two rooms. One of which had probably been an office at one time, and which now served as Jeremiah and Spencer’s living quarters. 

Or at least it had been.

If Jeremiah opened the door to the office room now, he would see the filthy pallet Spencer used to sleep on. Anger flared in his chest as he thought about how his friend would never be back to sleep on it again.

He would burn Spencer’s bedroll tonight. Out of respect, even if Spencer had been an asshole sometimes. And then he would go and Rip the head off the one responsible for killing his only friend.

His hands ached for the act. It had been so long since he’d Ripped. Taken a life. He would have done that today, had the entire plan not gone to shit. 

That’s what the other room was for. A place to keep their captive. Caffrey should have been in there right now, all tied up while he and Spence decided how best to torture him. What bits of him to carve into first.

It would have been difficult not to kill the man while he was here, but Spence would have helped him. Would have kept him focused and not let his need to Rip interfere with the job. Spence was the one who had come up with a name for his urges in the first place. That itch beneath his skin that forever called out for blood. Ripping. He needed to Rip.

Spence always made it better, more manageable somehow. Who was going to keep it under control now?

Everything was fucked. He was fucked. The job was fucked. Spence was fucked and it was all Neal Caffrey’s fault, the asshole. 

Jeremiah was going to track that son of a bitch down and tear him apart, piece by piece until there was nothing left. Until he looked like Spence had looked under that truck, his face half eaten by road. He would Rip that man to shreds with his bare hands. He’d done it before, and he would do it again. Always again. 

The ringing of a cell phone broke through the silence of the warehouse and Jeremiah’s thoughts. Creatures hidden beneath the molding boxes skittered away as the harsh sound echoed around the cavernous room. He pulled the phone from the back pocket of his black jeans - he’d burn them along with Spence’s bedroll tonight, maybe even the whole goddamn warehouse - and stared down at the screen.

Shit.  _ Fuck _ . 

He considered not even answering, but knew better than that. The person on the other end of that call was the only reason he wasn’t rotting away in some maximum security prison cell, and had the power to put him back there. He couldn’t let that happen. He still had so much left to do. 

Jeremiah swiped left and put the phone to his ear without greeting.

“Have you any idea what you’ve done?”

He stayed silent, knowing that anything he said now would only fall flat. His excuses, useless. He’d fucked up and there was no getting around that.

“The mess you have made for me?”

Jeremiah cleared his throat. “The guy fought back, what else was I supposed to do?

“Not let him get away and then flee the scene before you finished at least one part of the job! I practically gift wrapped those two men for you, Jeremiah. And now your associate is dead and we have a problem.” The man paused. “A big problem.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to finish what you started.”

“But Caffrey is in custody. I’ll never be able…”

“Neal Caffrey is no longer your concern, my slippery friend. I will handle that part. There’s something else I need you to do.”

Jeremiah waited for the man on the other end of the line to continue.

“Agent Jones should never have been allowed to survive. If he wakes up and starts spilling the beans about what he saw, then all of this will fall apart. And I am not in the mood for all of this to fall apart. Do you understand me, Jeremiah?”

Jeremiah nodded. “I need you to use your words, Jeremiah.”

“I understand.”

“Good.”

Jeremiah’s fingers began to ache from holding the phone so tightly. He hoped he would get the chance to Rip the man belonging to that arrogant voice on the other end of the line some day. Not even Spence would fault him for it.  “I’m going to need some more money.”

There was an angry sigh in his ear. “I figured as much and the money has already been wired to your account.

“You screwed up today, Jeremiah,” the man went on. “But you may still yet redeem yourself. I have it on good authority that Agent Jones has been transported to NY Presbyterian and is in a coma. Finish the job, Jeremiah, and then pray to god I am pleased enough with your results to keep you a free man.” 

“What about Caffrey?” That man still had to pay for what he’d done to Spence.

“Forget about Neal Caffrey, Jeremiah. I plan to bury him in a hole so deep, not even Peter Burke will be able to find him.

Jeremiah smiled in spite of himself. It was always good to talk to another Ripper.

“That reminds me. Take out Peter Burke as well as Jones, and maybe I’ll let you help me dig that hole for Mr. Caffrey.”

This time, Jeremiah grinned. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

* * *

By the time Peter finally arrived at the hospital, the sun had long since disappeared behind the horizon. He parked in the first visitors lot he could find and walked through the automatic doors of the main entrance. An ancient looking woman sat behind a massive oak desk, reading something that looked a lot like a romance novel. She set it down, spine up as Peter approached, giving him a warm smile. She was so small, Peter suspected if she stood up right now, her head would barely reach his navel. But her smile more than made up for what she lacked in stature and Peter found himself smiling back. 

“Can I help you?” she asked in a voice so deepened by age, it hardly sounded natural.

He flashed his badge. “Maybe. I’m trying to locate an accident victim that was brought in here today. He would have been part of that pile up on the bridge.”

“His name?”

“Jones, Clinton Jones.” 

Peter glanced around the lobby as the woman hunted and pecked for the letters of Jones’ name on her keyboard with the end of a pencil. It was like any other hospital foyer he’d ever been in, drab decoration with splashes of pastel color and big bulky furniture no one ever sat in. 

“Clinton Jones, you say?” the women asked, capturing Peter’s attention again.

He turned around. “It’s possible he was brought in as a John Doe.”

“Well that makes all the difference,” his new ancient acquaintance replied. She reached for a stack of name tags and pulled one from off the top. She paused with sharpie poised. “Your name, love?”

Peter gave it.

A moment later and she was handing him a name tag that now held his name in a slightly shaky yet surprisingly elegant script. 

“Put this on and take the second bank of elevators you come to down this hall to your right. You want LL1. Follow the signs for the emergency room from there. Kaitlyn is working the desk tonight and she will be waiting for you.”

Peter peeled the sticky part of the name tag from its backing and affixed it to the right lapel of his coat. 

“Thank you Janus,” he said with a wink, reading her name off her own name tag. The woman appeared to blush under her numerous wrinkles.

“Good luck to you, Agent Burke,” she replied with a wave of an arthritic hand.

Janus’ directions were spot on, and Peter found the emergency room about 10 minutes later with only one wrong turn down the confusing, and maze-like hospital corridors. She had also been true to her word, because Kaitlyn really was waiting for him as Peter stepped through yet another set of double doors that deposited him into the ER waiting room. It was a busy place. Nearly every seat was taken and a well armed security guard was standing watch at the front entrance, his eyes alert. It was a veritable melting pot of afflictions. Some people were obviously ill. Others had injuries that ranged from iced ankles to bloody bandages wrapped around open wounds. There was even an undercover officer sitting in one chair with his hand cuffed to a snoozing suspect. Peter bypassed them all with hardly a glance and made his way over to a beckoning Kaitlyn.

“How did you get here so fast?” the young woman asked before Peter even got the chance to identify himself. “I literally like, just got off the phone with your office.”

“Pardon?”

Kaitlyn looked at him funny. She was the complete opposite of Janus. “You’re Agent Burke right?”

“Yes, but how...”

Kaitlyn waived Peter back into a part of the ER where the exam rooms were located. He struggled to keep up with her as they passed room after room. Some had their curtains closed but others were open and Peter tried not to look. 

“He woke up as soon as they brought him in, but the poor guy couldn’t even remember his own name for a while there. Once we got that ironed out it took him another few hours to remember who we were supposed to call. He didn’t have any ID on him, or a cellphone.” Katilyn stopped so suddenly Peter nearly collided into the back of her. “Here we are!”

The curtain was drawn on this room as well, but the young woman paused before pulling it open. “I should warn you, he’s really disoriented so prepare yourself for that. He repeats things a lot, too and forgets he’s supposed to stay in bed. Maybe you could try and remind him of that.”

Kaitlyn was going a mile a minute and Peter was still desperately trying to keep up. He was pretty sure the young woman had just confirmed to him without meaning to that his agent had been found. And more importantly, Jones was alive.

Kaitlyn pulled the curtain back and Peter felt both relief and shock hit his system all at once. Jones was asleep in his bed, bloody bandages covering his very swollen face and one casted leg propped up on a pillow. Peter nearly staggered as he took a step forward toward his injured friend.

“He’s been in and out since they brought him in,” Kaitlyn explained quietly. She seemed to have transformed into a completely different person. “He’s got a pretty nasty concussion and a broken leg. Normally we’d send him home with you, but he’s still really dizzy and confused. His docs want to keep him overnight for observation. As soon as a room becomes available, we’ll move him upstairs.”

Peter nodded, unable to tear his eyes away from all the blood.

“None of its life threatening,” Kaitlyn said with a hand on Peter’s arm, “if that’s what you’re worried about. Do you know him well?”

“I’m his boss,” Peter replied, finally finding his voice.

“He told us as much. You must mean a lot to him. He remembered your name before he remembered his mom’s. You and some guy named Jaffrey.”

“Caffrey,”

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s not important.” Peter shrugged out of his coat with determination. “Listen, I need to see his doctor right away. I’m also gonna need a full protection detail on him at all times, so please coordinate with your staff and let them know what’s going on. Hospital security is fine for now, but my guys will be here soon to coordinate and take over.” Kaitlyn’s eyes widened but she seemed to understand he wasn’t joking. “Yeah, sure. Whatever you need.”

She left him then, and suddenly, Peter wasn’t sure what to do next. Did he plop down into the empty chair beside Jones’ bed and take his hand? Or did he get on the phone and start calling in the calvary? In the end, he decided his phone calls could wait.

“Jones,” he said, having to repeat the agent's name again when his first attempt came out as more of a croak. He took one of Jones’ warm hands in his own. The sleeping man stirred beneath his bandages.

“Burke?”

“Yeah. It’s me, I’m here.”

Jones’ cracked his eyes open and Peter could immediately see that everything Kaitlyn had told him was true. Jones was confused and seemed to be having trouble focusing. In fact, he looked about as bad as Neal had when he’d stumbled into White Collar - god was that only a few hours ago?

“Caffrey ok?”

“Yeah, Jones. Caffrey’s fine. Do you remember what happened?”

He couldn’t really tell for sure, but Jones appeared agitated beneath his bandages. “They ran us off the road,” he said as he tried to rise from the bed. Peter pushed him back down with a hand. 

“You and Neal? He was with you?”

“Peter, is he ok?”

“He’s fine Jones.” Was this the repetition Kaitlyn had been talking about?

“They ran us off the road and then... he was just gone.”

“You saw them take Neal?”

“Caffrey. Is he ok? I think they ran us off the road.” 

Jones was all over the place but Peter was willing to run around in circles all night if it meant he got some answers.

He put a firm hand on Jones’ arm when he tried once again to get out of bed. “Jones, what happened after they ran you off the road?”

“I think…”

“Did someone try to take Neal?”

“Caffrey, is he ok?”

“Jones, try to remember.”

“I can’t... I don’t know. God, I’m so tired Peter.”

It was so strange to hear his agent call him by his first name like this. So unlike Jones. Peter was beginning to realize questioning him like this was maybe not the best idea. His agent needed more time. Even if it was time they might not have.

“It’s ok Jones,” Peter said, patting his arm. “You just rest and I’ll be right here when you wake up.” 

Jones seemed to take this as permission, and soon his eyelids drifted closed again. 

Peter dragged a chair over to the side of the bed and sat down to make the phone calls that could no longer wait. He let Hughes know that Jones had been found right away, though his boss already knew. Kaitlyn’s call really had come in quite literally just as Peter was arriving in the ER. The next was to Jones’ mother. Peter had met her once at a cookout Jones had invited them to last summer. It was a rare moment of camaraderie between them and Peter had enjoyed himself immensely. Elizabeth had as well and had left the party with more than one recipe from Mrs. Jones’ kitchen tucked into her handbag. The food had been incredible. 

Peter’s call to Mrs. Jones went about as bad as he’d been expecting. Hospital security showed up just as they were finishing their promises to talk again soon. She was already on her way out the door.

“I need two of you on this door at all times,” he informed the two men that had been sent. “That man is an agent with the FBI and we have reason to believe his life may still be in danger. He was attacked by two unknown assailants today. One of those assailants is still at large and he may decide to come back and finish the job.

“You,” Peter continued, pointing to the harried looking ER doctor that was approaching him. “We need to get this man into a private room as soon as possible. Do you guys have any secure wings in this hospital.”

“One of our psych wards is under construction,” the surprised doctor suggested.

“That’ll work. Please make it happen. My people will be here in an hour or so. I’ll need him in a room before then.”

The doctor took off before Peter remembered he’d wanted to talk to him about Jones’ condition. 

It hardly mattered. He would catch up with the man later. Besides, Peter had other things on his mind. Like how Jones had been found and wasn’t lying dead in some ditch by the side of the road like Robert Leech had been trying to suggest. What worried Peter to no end though, was the fact that Jones couldn’t seem to remember much. Peter needed to know what that man knew. To confirm that they really had been run off the road and that it had been done for the sole purpose of kidnapping Neal.

His answers, he discovered, would not come quickly.

“But when will he start remembering?” Peter asked Jones’ doctor a few hours later. They were standing in a wing of the psych ward that was in an utter state of disarray thanks to ongoing construction. The sounds of Jones’ monitors drifted out into the hall where Peter was having a heated discussion with his doctor. A few yards further down, several agent’s silhouettes could be seen just beyond the locked ward doors. They were men Peter didn’t know, on loan from another field office that wasn’t quite so preoccupied with trying to figure out what had happened to Neal.

“I can’t tell you that, Agent Burke,” the doctor was saying. “Just that Mr. Jones has a very serious concussion and we’ll be monitoring his condition closely.”

“It’s Agent,” Peter corrected the man.

“I’m sorry?”

“ _ Agent _ Jones.”

The doctor let out a sigh. “Of course. I apologize. But I really am serious, Agent Burke. We are doing everything we can for your friend. He’ll either regain his memories later, or perhaps not at all.”

“ _ Not at all? _ ” Peter repeated.

The doctor shrugged. “The brain is a funny thing, Agent. There’s just no telling how it might behave.”

“Ok,” Peter said, feeling downtrodden. “Thank you Doctor.”

“Of course. Now, if there’s anything you need or if you have any more questions, the nurses know how to get a hold of me.”

When the doctor had gone, Peter stood in the doorway of Jones’ room and watched the slow rise and fall of his friend’s chest. It wasn’t a brain bleed. The doctors had confirmed that. It was just retrograde amnesia brought on by the head trauma. He’d seen the condition of that Ford Tempo out on the bridge with Murphy. It was a miracle that either of his friends survived. And now one was stuck in an interrogation room with US Marshals, and the other was stuck in a hospital bed. The entire situation was nuts.

“Agent Burke,” a voice called out to him from down the hall. One of the agents was poking their head through the door. “There’s someone here to see you.”

Peter didn’t want to leave Jones’ side, not for a second, but whoever it was, it could be important.

He shuffled on down the corridor, but didn’t get far. El, his wife, his Elizabeth elbowed her way past the agent holding the door and made a beeline for Peter. The guards went to draw their weapons, but a stern look from Peter had them standing down. The doors were closed again just as El reached him and threw her arms around his neck.

She smelled of fresh air and winter wind. She was cold in his arms, but he didn’t care. He just wrapped his arms around her waist and held on tight. Burying his face in her neck he breathed her in, lifting her a few inches off the ground to bring her in closer. Her mere presence was like a balm for the soul. Every ounce of tension that Peter had been holding inside melted away under her embrace.

“How is he?” she asked without letting go, even after he set her down. Peter couldn’t have cared less.

“The doctor’s say it’s a bad concussion and a broken leg. He’s awake but disoriented. They have no idea if he’ll ever fully regain his memories of what happened.

El stepped away but kept her hands on his arms. “And Neal? Any word on him?”

If it was possible for Peter to love his wife any more than he already did, it happened right then.

“He’s still with the Marshals, but they ordered us to stand down. I can’t even get in to see him and make sure he’s ok.”

Elizabeth grabbed his hand and led him over to a couch that had been shoved up against one of the walls in the hallway. It was covered in plastic so the seat was clean when El pulled off the heavy sheet and let it flutter to the floor. They were completely alone for the moment, otherwise Peter might not have let himself seem quite so manic or agitated as he took a seat beside his wife. He wiped his sweaty palms against his pants before speaking again.

“None of this makes any sense, El. They arrested Neal on suspicions of murder, but I sure as hell proved them wrong on that front. But Hughes still can’t get them to release Neal back into our custody. Someone higher up keeps blocking my plays and I can’t figure out why.”

“Well, Neal isn’t exactly everyone’s favorite person at the FBI. Maybe he got under the wrong person’s skin?”

“Could be,” Peter considered. “I just wish I knew what they still wanted from him. I keep waiting for the call that someone threw him back into prison behind my back. He doesn’t deserve that, El.”

“And I know you’ll do everything in your power to make sure that doesn’t happen.” she said, running her fingers through the hair near his temple. “And so does Neal.”

Peter closed his eyes, trying to believe that the words were true, but El hadn’t been in the office this afternoon while the Marshals were dragging Neal away. She hadn’t seen that look of betrayal Neal had given him, or how drugged and waterlogged he’d looked.

“I sure hope so,” Peter replied quietly.

El’s hand slipped into his. “Tell me what you need me to do.”

“Stay with him,” Peter said, jerking his head towards Jones’ room. “I need to get back to the office and his family isn’t here yet. There are some calls I have to make. A few people in DC who still owe me favors. Maybe one of them can help me get Neal released from Marshal custody.”

“Of course I’ll stay with him.”

Peter reached over and touched the side of his wife’s face lightly with a palm. “I really do love you.”

El grabbed his hand and held it there. “I love you too. Now go get our boy back.”


	10. Up and Attem

“Up and attem, shit bag. It’s time to go.”

Neal was pulled from sleep by someone kicking the leg of his chair. He jolted upwards, startled by the sudden movement, and paid for it instantly. The cheese sandwich he’d been given for a meal who knew how many hours ago sat rumbling in his stomach. Every inch of him still hurt, but the US Marshal standing over him probably couldn’t have cared less. He rolled his eyes when Neal let out an involuntary groan and went to work unshackling him from the table. He was hauled up onto his feet a moment later.

The congestion in his sinuses, he noted, had now settled in his chest and the sudden change in altitude made him cough miserably. His Marshal was still unmoved by all this and crossed his arms with a scowl. “Come on, princess. I don’t have all day.”

Neal swallowed painfully when he was done, and then forced his feet forward. The Marshal helped him along with a hard shove to the center of his back.

“Am I going back to the FBI?” Neal asked. His voice still sounded so gravelly.

“Nope,” the Marshal replied. Neal hadn’t gotten his name. “Prison.”

Somehow this news did not surprise him. He’d been in that white interrogation room for what he suspected had been most of the night waiting for Peter to bust down the doors and take him away from all this. But Peter never came. Maybe those memories of being so angry at his handler had merit. Maybe Neal really was alone in all this.

Well, at least in prison he would get a hot meal and a change of clothes. At least in prison he knew what to expect, like lukewarm showers and a cot to lie down on, and maybe even some goddamn medical care. They could have hauled him off to county lock up for all Neal cared and he still would have been overjoyed. Anything to get him out of that horrible little room.

Neal’s Marshal led him through the office on the way to the elevators. Judging by the sunlight streaming in through the window, it was early morning, so he really had just spent the night in that room. Most of the desks they passed were empty, but some had occupants. They pulled disgusted faces as he passed. Probably on account of his eau d’East River, though that didn’t stop Neal’s brain from suggesting that maybe  _ he _ was the reason for their revulsion. He had just confessed to murder. Neal Caffrey. FBI Agent Murderer. Persona non grata.

If only they knew. If only they could see that he’d signed that confession to save an office full of people. It was a gamble, he knew, but he was fairly certain Jones was not dead, and that Peter would find him soon, and then that little piece of paper Wilson had stuck into his file would be useless. A lie. And everyone was going to know it was Robert Leech who had forced his hand. As soon as Neal was out of here, he was going to make that man wish he’d never heard of Neal Caffrey.

Assuming, of course, he ever got out of here.

Squaring his shoulders, Neal winked at the next Marshal he passed, flashing her a dizzying half smile. The young woman returned it before she realized she wasn’t supposed to and looked away. 

“Eyes forward, asshole,” Marshal Dickhead ordered, giving him another hard shove. Neal took advantage of it, and used the momentum to take a dramatic stumble forward, and directly into an empty desk. He had to use his hands to stop his fall before the Marshal angrily yanked him back up on his feet.    
  
“What part of ‘I don’t have all day’ did you not understand, Caffrey?”

“Sorry!” Neal shot back. But the Marshal was pissed now and half dragged Neal the rest of the way to the elevators. He never even noticed the small paperclip that disappeared into Neal’s pocket.

“What took you so long?” Dickhead’s partner asked when they finally reached the elevators. This time Neal didn’t forget to check their name tags. Dickhead was really called Johnson (fitting) and the other man, whom Neal assumed was the man’s partner, was known as Stevens. Neal didn’t like either of them.

“Anyone know who won the game last night?” he asked as they rode the elevators down. He knew he was being snarky but that still didn’t excuse Johnson body checking him into the side of the elevator. Or pinning his face against the reflective surface of the elevator wall.

“You think this is funny, you murdering son of a bitch? Open that trap again and I will close it for you. Do not speak. Do not breathe. Keep your eyes forward and your head down. If you so much as look at the sidewalk sideways and I will shove my gun so far up your ass, you’re going to need surgery to remove it. Do I make myself clear?”

“Gun up my ass,” Neal panted, his breath fogging up the aluminum. “Check.” When all this was over, Neal was coming for this man’s badge, too.

“Good,” Johnson sneered with one final shove. “I’ve got enough paperwork to do already.”

It had to have been below freezing when they emerged from the US Marshals’ building and out into the sunshine. There wasn’t a single cloud in the entire sky. A big difference from the steely grey he’d entered the building under. Neal couldn't decide if it was just a beautiful day, or fate taking a dump on his lawn. He didn’t have much time to ponder all this, however, as the cold air was like a catalyst to his lungs. He began coughing, and so intensely that Stevens had to stop trying to manhandle him into the back of the Marshals’ unmarked sedan for a moment. 

“Get in the goddamn car, Caffrey,” the man warned in a low voice. But nothing Neal did would make the coughing stop. Stevens had to jog back a few paces a moment later when Neal finally threw up his cheese sandwich.

There was no comfort in the hands that all but threw him into the back of the car. Neal curled up against the far door and pressed his forehead to the glass. It felt wonderful on his fevered face as Johnson climbed in behind the wheel and Stevens took the passenger seat.

“You puke back there and I’m going to make you clean it up,” Stevens said over the seat before the engine came to life and the sedan began pulling away from the curb. Neal hardly heard him. The feeling of the cushiony seat beneath his abused body was heavenly. The chill of the frosted glace against his skin a welcome respite from his own body temperature. He would take this over empty threats any day.

“Are we going to Rikers?” He asked in a dreamy voice, guessing neither Johnson nor Stevens was about to reach over the seat and renew their earlier order that he keep his mouth shut and his head down. The slow and steady rock of the car was lulling him to sleep and his broken body was all too happy to answer it’s call.

“Yeah, sure. Rikers. We’ll be there soon.”

Johnson’s response triggered something in his brain, but Neal was too relaxed by now to care about much else. He slipped off to sleep, waking again immeasurable moments later to that same gentle rocking. He stifled a yawn and cracked open his eyes, ready to ask Johnson and Stevens how much longer it was going to be. 

Only Johnson and Stevens were no longer there.

Neal had to blink several times as his brain struggled to understand what it was seeing, which was unusual for Neal. His brain usually worked just fine, thank you very much. So why was it trying to tell him he wasn’t in that back of the Marshal’s car anymore?

Neal startled himself full awake as he jerked upright in his seat. Muscles screamed at him, but he didn’t have time to worry about that right now. He was too focused on trying not to have a goddam panic attack.

Gone was the cushiony interior of the Marshal’s car. It had been replaced by a rather filthy looking prisoner transport bus to which Neal was now chained. 

Trying to rein in his hammering heart and keep himself from coughing again, he forced himself to calm down and take in his surroundings. He was in the very last seat of the bus with absolutely no memory of how he’d gotten there. There were a handful of other inmates on the bus, all dressed in orange jumpsuits, but Neal was still sporting his smelly Armani. Several armed guards were also passengers, taking up the first few rows of seats and armed to the teeth with automatic weapons. They were looking ahead and not back at Neal. 

Confused beyond measure, Neal turned his aching head to the right to glance out his window. He’d been expecting the ferry to Riker’s or at least a glimpse of the tall, familiar buildings of New York. What he got farmland and the occasional grazing cow. 

All the color drained from Neal’s face in an instant.

“Oh  _ shit _ .”


	11. Mistaken Identity

The ride up to the 11th floor of the federal building felt like the longest of Peter Burke's life. Exhaustion tugged at him like an incessant toddler, pulling his thoughts in so many different directions it was dizzying. He’d gotten only a few hours of sleep last night standing vigil beside Jones with his wife. Now another day had dawned and he was still no closer to the answers he so desperately craved. Don had called him on the way over to tell him that both Jones’ and Neal’s prints had been recovered at the scene, but Peter was already expecting that news. What he needed was for Jones to remember. What he needed was some stronger coffee then the sludge he’d forced down his throat at the hospital this morning before heading back into the office in the same clothes he’d left in. 

Peter stepped off the elevator when it arrived on his floor and pushed through the doors. He’d hardly made it two steps in before Hughes was poking his head out of his office. 

“Agent Burke, a word.” Peter quickened his pace, nervous at his boss’ tone. It did not sound like summons of a man with good news.

“Have a seat,” Hughes suggested, gesturing towards the two chairs in front of his desk.

“No thanks, I’ll stand. What’s going on?”

Hughes put his elbows on the desk and folded his hands. “I’ve been on the phone with the US Marshals all morning.” 

Considering it was a little after 8am, Peter found that pretty impressive.

“And? Are they going to release Neal back into our custody?”

“No, Burke, they’re not. Apparently someone didn’t get the memo over there about Jones being found and Neal was transferred over to RIkers this morning.”

Peter nearly exploded. “Are you kidding me? I told you something like this was going to happen!”

“It’s not just that, Peter,” Hughes went on, sounding tired. “Caffrey signed a confession.”

“A confession?”

“Apparently he confessed to Jones’ murder late last night.”

Peter’s mouth fell open. “What in the world would ever possess him to do such a thing?”

Hughes shrugged. “That’s what I’ve been on the phone about all morning.”

“And what do the Marshals have to say?”

“Not much. I’m technically not even supposed to be talking to them, but I felt it was my duty to inform them that our Agent had been found. How is Jones by the way?”

“Still not able to remember much, but his mother is with him now,” Peter replied, finally taking the chair that had been offered to him. “Wait, you told them last night that Jones was alive and they still hauled Neal off to prison?”

“It appears they felt Neal possibly being involved with what happened to Jones and his anklet being cut were grounds enough to do so, yes.”

“This has Leech written all over it, you know that right?”

“I do, Peter. We just don’t have any proof and Leech is very well connected.”

“I gotta start looking into him, Reese,” Peter said, dragging a hand down the side of this face. Those few hours of shuteye in the hospital had done nothing for him.

“As your director, you know I can’t condone that,” Hughes replied before glancing out the glass front of his office to make sure no one was around. “But as your friend, as Caffrey’s friend, I’m willing to look the other way as long as it takes.”

“Do you want me to keep you in the loop?” Peter asked, plans already forming and then reforming in his head. 

“Probably not. I think plausible deniability is our best at this point. Come back to me when you’ve got something concrete. Until then, I don’t want to hear about it.”

“I can do that,” Peter agreed, getting up from his seat.

“Oh and Peter,” Hughes added before he could leave the room. He turned back around. “Be careful.”

* * *

Back in his own office, Peter collapsed into his chair and spent a few minutes staring out his window. Outside, Manhattan was coming to life under an impossibly clear sky. From this high up the people on the sidewalks looked like ants and he found himself wondering about their lives. How uncomplicated they must be. Peter would have given anything for an uncomplicated life at that moment. He felt as though he were gearing up for battle, and one that would demand everything he had to win. One that was going to be hard and long fought, but that would be worth it in the end because Neal was worth it. His CI was worth fighting for. Just why did the stakes have to be so high? White Collar was not accustomed to kidnappings and murder. They were best with forgeries and securities fraud, but Neal had always had a penchant for attracting danger, so Peter wasn’t sure what he was so surprised about. This was just typical Neal, pissing off the wrong people and then depending on Peter to get him out of it. And he would get Neal out of this. It just felt like it was going to be a much harder fight than he was anticipating.

The look Neal had given him was still bothering him, as was his fear that Neal hadn’t been properly taken care of in the medical department, so Peter decided his first stop of the day should be Rikers. 

He glanced down at his watch. It was almost 9 now and by the time he got over to Rikers they would probably have had time to get Neal through intake and entered into the system. Though the process was notoriously slow and flawed. Regardless, he would go there and demand to see his consultant before Leech had a chance to anticipate his next move and block him from visiting. Even though he had no proof yet, Peter was convinced that Leech was the man behind everything that had been done to Neal. Even the attempted kidnapping and violence on the bridge yesterday. But Leech also did not strike Peter as a violent man, so the different parts of his theory kept clashing, warring with each other in his mind over the details. What he needed was a nice long conversation with a Neal who was not drugged, and for Jones to get his damn memories back

“If anyone asks,” he said to Agent Reed as he breezed out of the office, “tell them I’m running some errands.”

* * *

Peter spent his ride over to Rikers on the phone, talking to a few other people who might be willing to help. But like before, he was being stonewalled. He arrived at the prison a little after 11, and in one hell of a mood. 

Rikers Island was nothing to write home about, he decided immediately. Especially in winter. Not even a sunny day could improve the landscape as Peter made his way over to the detention center where a quick call ahead to the prison had told him Neal was being held. He pulled into an empty parking space and tried to psyche himself up. There weren’t many other cars in the lot. Most visitors to Rikers came by bus so there wasn’t ever much traffic. Peter steeled himself against the cold and then made his way into the detention center. The place that would be Neal’s home for the next year or so. That was about as long as any prisoner stayed at Riker’s these days. He would then be sent to a more long term facility somewhere else in the state. Well Peter had no intention of letting him stay in this place for more than a few days, let alone a year. He’d made a pact with himself, he was going to do whatever it took to clear Neal’s name and take Leech down. Prove once and for all that his suspicions about the man were true and he was the cause of all this. 

Once through security, and feeling a bit lighter thanks to all of his personal belongings the guards had removed from him, Peter sat in the visitors room waiting anxiously for the guards to bring Neal in. He’d been expecting to call the prison and find Neal in the infirmary, but that was apparently not the case. He was still fuming about that. He’d looked up the statistics. Only 15% of all people who jumped from the Brooklyn Bridge lived to tell the tale, let alone walk away from it on their own two feet. The last to do it had been a some unidentified male who had come out the other side of it in surprisingly good shape. Neal’s arrival at White Collar yesterday was all the proof Peter needed of how his consultant had come out the other side of it. He belonged in a hospital. Not prison. 

But Hughes had been right. There were rules and procedures in place regarding the treatment of prisoners. This wasn’t some third world country where you were thrown into a cell to rot. The federal government didn’t torture those they incarcerated. If Neal had needed medical care, the Marshals would have seen that he got it. Still, Peter was kind of relieved he was about to see his consultant with his own two eyes. If Neal even looked the slightest bit injured or sick, there would be hell to pay. 

The visitors room hadn’t changed much since the last time Peter had been in it. It was still grey and devoid of charm with several tables you could sit at that reminded Peter of the tables you might find in a school cafeteria. He sat at the furthest one from the door and closest to the room's only window. He figured Neal might appreciate a chance to look out and see the sky. It was still cloudless and pristine, though it was colder than ever. 

Peter glanced up at a clock bolted to the wall behind a steel cage to check how long he’d been waiting and realized he was nervous. The two men had not parted under the best of circumstances, but Neal had also been drugged out of his mind. With his brilliant mind he was sure to figure out that Peter’s hand had been forced. Nothing good would have come out of him causing a scene and refusing to let the Marshals take him. That would have earned him a one way ticket home at least, possibly even thrown into jail himself, if Leech could have had his way. Peter really hoped his suspicions about the man were true. He was going to have a lot of fun taking him down if they were.

When the barred door to the visitor’s room finally began to open several minutes later, Peter looked up hopefully. He was praying to find a slightly more sober Neal smiling back at him. What he got was a shorty, stocky little inmate with rather intricate tattoos covering nearly every inch of his body. Peter’s face fell. The man was obviously here for someone else. How much longer were they going to make him wait?

Peter looked back down at the hands he had folded on the table top and went back to brooding. The guards surprised him a moment later, however, when they plopped the tattooed prisoner down in front of Peter. When he’d said every inch of him had been covered in tattoos, he hadn’t been lying. Intricate patterns crept up his neck and onto a closely shaven skull. 

“I think there’s been some kind of mistake, guys. I’m here to meet Neal Caffrey.”

“This is Neal Caffrey,” one of the guards said, sounding bored. 

The man across the table from Peter offered him a yellow smile missing several of its teeth. “I’ll be whoever you want me to be, sweetheart.”

Peter was not amused. “I’m serious, fellas. This is not Neal Caffrey.”

The guards appeared to think Peter was yanking their chain and shared an irritated look between them. “Says so on the forms.”

“I’m telling you, that is not Neal Caffrey!” They were looking a little more worried now as Peter pushed up from his seat. If he were any normal visitor, they probably would have moved in to diffuse the situation. But Peter was no normal visitor and they had to have known that. He was an FBI agent and not so easily dismissed. 

“I want to talk to the warden,” he demanded. “Tell him Peter Burke from the FBI is here to see him and if he doesn’t get down here in the next five minutes and explain to me why you think this man is Neal Caffrey, I am going to have the entire bureau down here combing every inch of this place!”

The two guards pulled the prisoner who definitely wasn’t Neal off the stool and back out of the room. If they hadn’t made Peter give up his cellphone, he would have been on it instantly.

Peter realized he was shaking, and sat back down at the table. It was just a mistake, he kept telling himself. They would check the system, find it was just a clerical error or some bullshit like that, and send him over to the infirmary or something. Either that or Neal would come waltzing through that door any second now, wondering what all the fuss was about, looking a little worse for wear, but otherwise unscathed. They would laugh about the whole mess and Neal would be in good spirits as Peter explained exactly what he was going to do to clear his name and get him out of here. Back where he belonged. Because all of this was nothing more than a big misunderstanding. A giant cosmic joke.

But Neal was not the next man to enter the visitor center. It was the warden and he didn’t look nervous or apprehensive, he looked pissed.

“What is the meaning of this, Agent Burke?” the man demanded, storming into the room with the two dopey guards from earlier.

“I could ask you the same damn question.” Peter shot back, pulling on his FBI pants. “I came here today to see Neal Caffrey and they brought me some skinhead!”

“I checked the system myself, and spoke to the inmate in question. Both of them say he is Neal Caffery. So explain yourself!”

“Then you better check your system again, warden. Look up Caffrey’s prior intake photos. You’ll see what I’m talking about.”

The warden’s face reddened a little, but he seemed to understand to refuse would not look good for him. “Fine. If you’ll follow me Agent Burke, I’m sure we can clear all this up in a heartbeat.”

“I’ll need everything that was confiscated from me first.” Peter said, entirely unimpressed by the entire situation. The warden looked like he wanted to argue, but how could he? If he denied Peter, it might look like he was trying to hide something. But if Peter got his phone back and started making premature calls claiming someone had covered their tracks by switching Neal out for another prisoner, then he could be in some seriously deep shit with the bureau. In the end, everything was returned to him.

Peter followed the warden and his guards out of the visitor center and down a long, cinder block corridor that led to a section of the prison he’d never been in before. Which was funny, considering how many trips he’d taken here over the years. It must have been the administrative wing because they passed several office doors until finally arriving at one that announced itself as warden Jefferies’ office via a polished gold plack screwed to the door. The guards didn’t follow Peter or the warden in. They stationed themselves outside in the hall instead and secured the door behind the two men. Warden Jefferies settled himself into the chair behind his desk and Peter slid into one of the room’s extra chairs without being invited. The warden was a polished looking individual with a tailored suit Neal might even have complimented and an intelligent face. Though he was pecking away at his keyboard like a petulant child while Peter sat fuming in his chair, trying not to take offence to the angry typing. This went on for several tense moments before the typing ceased entirely.

“Oh dear,” the warden muttered before swiveling his computer monitor around. Neal, the real Neal, was smiling over at Peter from a very flattering mugshot. “Is this Neal Caffrey?”

“Yes,” Peter said, not sure whether he should be overjoyed or outraged by what he was seeing.

“You two, get in here!” Jefferies barked to the guards stationed outside. They nearly took each other out trying to get into the room at the same time. “I want the entire prison put on lockdown. We have a possible escaped prisoner.”

“Escaped?” Peter repeated, dumbstruck. Of course that’s where this man’s mind would go. If one of his prisoners had been misplaced, it was his ass on the line. Much easier to just assume Neal had escaped and worry about the details later. It was such a Leech move, Peter had to wonder if these two men weren’t working together. And that just opened up a whole new can of worms. It meant corruption, and that Robert Leech’s fingers were in more pies than even Hughes knew.

The warden pointed to one of the guards. “You, sound the alarm. You,” he pointed to the other. “Watch him.”

“Oh I don’t think so!” Peter exclaimed, rising from his chair as the warden started heading for the door. “I’m going with you!” A hand appeared on his arm and would let him go no further. Somewhere off in the distance, sirens began wailing.

“I don’t have time to argue with you… Agent Burke, was it?” Peter glared instead of answering. “The prison is on lockdown. You will remain here under guard for your own protection.” His own protection? It was a weak excuse at best. 

“Neal Caffrey did not escape,” he shouted after the warden who had turned around and was once again headed for the door. Peter yanked his arm out of his guards' grip and stalked towards the man. His guard was not far behind. 

The warden turned. “And what makes you so sure?”

Despite the warning bells flashing in his head that this man could not be trusted, Peter had to at least try and appeal to him. “I have reason to believe that someone is trying to abduct Neal Caffrey and has either switched him out for another prisoner and kidnapped him, or is holding him somewhere on this island to make you think he escaped.”

The warden was looking at him like he was nuts. “If that’s the case, Agent Burke, then a thorough search of our facilities is exactly what we need. Now why don’t you sit down and let me do my job?”

Peter’s brain began going through all the ways in which this could go terribly wrong if he kept pushing, for him and for Neal. It was a mistake coming here. He could see that now. He might have just put Neal in more danger than he probably already was and if something happened to Neal, Peter wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to forgive himself. It felt like he was being blocked at every turn with this whole entire mess, and he was getting a little tired of it. When would they catch a break?

“I’m going with you,” Peter stated against his better judgement.

“Agent Burke,” Jeffries said with an exaggerated sigh, but not going so far as to roll his eyes, “Rikers holds some of the most dangerous criminals in all of New York. I will not allow a government suit to go galavanting around the grounds unsupervised. Lockdowns put everyone on edge and I can’t guarantee your safety.”

“I’m an FBI agent, I can handle myself.”

The warden regarded him warily. “Of that I have no doubt, but our procedures are in place for a reason. You will stay here and when the lockdown is lifted, someone will come to escort you off the premises,” he finished. “Safely,” was added almost as an afterthought.

“Fine,” Peter conceded, “but while I’m waiting I want to talk to the prisoner who says he’s Neal.”

“Not possible,” the warden said firmly. “What do you imagine a lockdown means? No one gets in or out of my prison until I say so, including you, Agent Burke.”

The conversation was over. Jeffries confirmed it by turning on his heels and stalking out of the room. Peter watched him go, his face hot with fury at the fact there was nothing he could do to stop him. He fished his cellphone out of his pocket instead, ignored the guard still hovering right behind him, and made the first of what he suspected would be a thousand calls. So what if his theories were just hunches at this point. An inmate claiming to be Neal was the last straw. It was time for the good guys to win one for once.


	12. Second Star to the Right

Neal glanced nervously towards the front of the bus and the guards who had yet to turn around in their seats or acknowledge him in any way, despite his several attempts at getting their attention. They were ignoring him, he realized, though he had no idea why. They had to know something, or else how had he gotten here in the first place.

“Would someone mind telling me what in the hell is going on?” He tried again and this time one of the guards did turn around. Matter of fact, an entire busload of heads craned around to stare at him. Neal felt his cheeks flush, and not just from the fever he could still tell he was running. He was still pretty much in the same condition physically he had been when he’d fallen asleep in the back of the Marshals car. The only new thing seemed to be a horrible taste in his mouth and the haze still hanging around his brain. A haze that suggested someone had drugged him. Again. But where as before he’d at least retained some of his memories, this time there was nothing. It was just Marshal car and then prison transport. There was nothing in between. No hint to explain what had happened or how he had gotten there. The feeling scared the hell out of him. If he had been moved from one vehicle to another without him knowing, what else had they done to him. Had one of the guards not been making his way to the back of the bus with his rifle at the ready, Neal might have checked himself over again.

“You tryin’ to stir up trouble again, Sanchez?” The guard towered over him with dark brown eyes that were nearly black. Neal had to remind himself that he didn’t need to shrink away. That was just the drugs talking. “You know, they warned me about you. Said you were a real nut job. A real twisted bastard.”

Neal could sense where this conversation was going. But like an idiot - the sick, exhausted and incredibly sore idiot he was - he kept talking.

“I think there’s been some kind of misunderstanding. I’m Neal Caffrey and I’m supposed to be at Rikers right now.”

“Is that so,” the man sneered. The name tag affixed to his lapel told Neal the man’s name was Smith. “Because I’ve got paperwork up at the front of the bus that says your name is Dominic Sanchez and that you're being extradited to Bucks county for killing a cop.”

Whatever haze was left in Neal’s brain feld as what the corrections officer had just said finally registered with him. “Excuse me?”

“Is that cotton you got in your ears or something, Sanchez,” Smith said, prodding the side of Neal’s face with his gun.

Neal swallowed even though it hurt. The faces of the other officers still turned towards him were murderous. “I’m telling you, I’m not Dominic Sanchez. My name is Neal Caffrey and I’m a consultant for the FBI. Just call my handler, Agent Peter Burke with the White Collar division. He’ll explain everything.”

“Yeah, sure thing Sanchez,’ the guard laughed, “let me get right on that.” He turned to go, but Neal was not ready for the conversation to be over. He shifted forward in his seat to - well he wasn’t sure really. Follow the guard, grab for his arm. But the butt of Smith’s semiautomatic flashed out before he could, and for the second time since this nightmare began, Neal’s head was smashed into a window. 

“Boy, they weren’t kidding about you, were they? Christ, they said you were a nutjob when they dragged you onto my bus, drooling all over yourself. I just thought they were kidding.”

Neal grabbed his aching head with both hands as well as he could with his shackled wrists and tried so hard not to be sick again. He could just imagine what Smith might do to him if he were. His migraine had disappeared back at the Marshals office without getting too bad, but another blow like the one he’d just been given was sure to bring it back. If he didn’t get a brain bleed and die first.

Smith turned on his heels and started walking back towards the front of the bus. He got several high fives from his comrades for his efforts. The other inmates had thankfully turned away by now and Neal was left alone with his pain. The force of Smith’s blow had cut the inside of his cheek open and Neal could taste blood. He tried to ignore the metallic taste in his mouth and went back to looking out his window. Bucks County, that was in Pennsylvania if he remembered right. Hopefully the paper trail would lead Peter right to him… unless his unexpected arrival on the prison transport meant there had been no official paperwork.

Neal’s thoughts shifted over to Robert Leech and his threats to Neal back in that little white interrogation room. He’d vowed to himself that he would destroy that man for his threats against Peter and the other White Collar agents. Leech seemed to be trying to cover his tracks. Getting Neal lost in the prison system, and maybe even killed if Smith was going to have anything to say about it. Neal massaged the place on the side of his head where Smith had hit him. The pain was like lightning searing across his nerve endings. How in the hell was he supposed to talk his way out of this one?

When the prison transport bus finally pulled into whatever podunk prison Leech had found to dump him in, Neal tried to keep his head down and as far off Smith’s and the other guard’s radar as possible. He knew if he could just get to processing then he would be able to talk to the right people and get this sorted. Explain to them that he had no business being transferred here and that someone had made a huge mistake.

The inmates were all lined up and then marched under a sign that loudly proclaimed them the property of the Pennsylvania Bureau of Prisons. Neal was last in the line. The rest of the inmates had all been chained together, but not Neal. And that little detail was making him nervous. Everyone else moved in through a door marked Intake while Neal remained outside.

“Name?” a disinterested officer with a clipboard asked him.

“Neal Caffrey.”

The officer drew a finger down the list of names on his clipboard and then frowned. “What did you say your name was?”

“Sanchez, Sanchez Sanchez,” an amused voice sang from behind him. “I thought you of all people would be proud to give your real name! Isn’t being a cop killer supposed to be a badge of honor or something?” Smith came up beside him and threw his arm around Neal’s shoulder, digging his fingers into the flesh of Neal’s arm. Even through the suit it was painful. “Now be a good boy and give this nice officer your name.” The pressure increased. “Your real name.”

Neal could sense that any further lack of cooperation on his part would be futile with Smith hovering there over his shoulder, so he gave a name that didn’t belong to him. It was a small loss. Smith couldn’t stay with him forever and Neal would get a chance to plead his case with the doctors who examined him, or whomever was assigned to explain the prison procedures to him. There were still plenty of chances left.

Neal’s hope began to diminish though the farther they got through the prison’s intake process. The place was so backwards in its procedures and so far behind the times technology wise that they didn’t even have a modern scanner to take his fingerprints. Smith was never more than two feet away from him as another bored looking corrections officer rolled each one of his fingers across an inkpad and then pressed them into a little white card with ten empty boxes.

“Take good care of that one, Doll,” Smith winked as Neal’s fingerprint card was handed over to a woman wearing half-moon glasses and a frown. She hardly acknowledged the man as she snapped the card from his hands and slipped it to the bottom of an already large pile.

“Dominic, may I call you Dominic?” Smith asked as he dragged Neal over to an unmarked door. Neal didn’t respond. “Well, Dominic. I have a feeling you are just going to love this next part. I’ll make sure Brutus is extra nice and thorough with his cavity search. A special treat for our world famous cop killer.”

Neal was pushed into a room where the other inmates from the bus were all lined up and facing a tiled wall. Their restraints had been removed and they were all now facing the wall with their hands cuffed behind their backs, and completely naked. 

“You know what to do,” Smith said, shoving him forward. “And no funny business,” he added as Neal held his hands out and his own shackles were removed. The feeling was indescribable. He’d been chained up since yesterday and his wrists were red and chaffed from the constant friction. He rubbed at them gingerly before beginning the painful process of removing his clothes. Smith stood there staring as Neal was forced to peel the disgusting layers of his suit away from his body. The smell coming off him was horrendous and every one in the room crinkled their noses up at him. The entire process was humiliating and degrading, though Smith stood there looking like he was having the time of his life. Neal tried not to wince as his tired and thoroughly abused body fought him every step of the way. He coughed miserably while he tried to divest himself of the filthy clothing. Muscles pulled and shook, the arms he revealed after taking off his suit jacket and button up were mottled with bruises. Had he been able to get a good look at the rest of himself, he imagined the rest of his body probably looked the same. His chest sure did as he removed his undershirt and started working on his belt with trembling fingers. 

Smith shuffled in a little closer. “Not  _ shy _ are you, Dominic?”

The other inmates in the room snorted under their breath, as did a rather burly looking guard in the room with them, who Neal assumed was Brutus. What none of them understood was that Neal had been through all this before. All of it. The nakedness and the shame. He even had a place in his head he could go for when he had to endure it again. It was the place he went now as the light left his eyes and he unbuckled his belt and let his tattered Armani pants fall to the floor in a puddle around his ankles. He stepped out of them mechanically, barely registering when Smith reminded him that ALL his clothes had to go, and he shimmied out of his briefs. He stayed there even as it became his turn to go before Brutus and the enormous officer snapped on a fresh pair of latex gloves.

“Did anyone tell you Mr. Sanchez here killed a cop?” Smith said casually.

“Hmmm, my brother’s a cop,” came Brutus’ deep reply. Neal closed his eyes against the pain he felt next and willed himself to stay in his happy place. He forced his thoughts away from what was being done to him and instead turned them to his life before. A good life where he was warm and comfortable and possibility was endless. Where he had friends and lovers who were gentle and kind. Sure, a few of them had stabbed him in the back a time or two over the years, but they weren’t vicious criminals. Not like the kind of criminal Smith and Brutus were imagining him to be.

When the worst of it was over, Neal was forced under the frigid spray of a shower head. The pressure was way too high and the water was like a jackhammer against his skin. He emerged dripping wet, and more miserable than before, if that was even possible. The other inmates had disappeared again and Neal was left alone with Smith and Brutus. He was handed an orange jumpsuit with his “fish kit” as people liked to call it, resting on top. It held things like a tooth brush and some other small items he might need. Neal pulled the jumpsuit on without comment, hating how the fabric felt against his still damp skin. Water dripped from his hair when he bent over. Oh damn. His hair. He’d forgotten all about that. His next stop was likely the barber chair, a fate he’d escaped last time he was sent to prison by charming the pants off the guards who had walked him through intake. He’d just been a white collar criminal back then, in for the bond forgery that Peter had nailed him on. Smith and Brutus were not like those other guards. They saw him as a cop killer, and would treat him as such. There was no hope for his hair, his one saving grace. The one part of his old life he’d been able to keep before.

But Smith was just full of surprises today and when they entered the room where some of his friends from the bus were already in the barber chairs and others were waiting in line for their turn, Smith grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and hauled him towards a door on the other side of the room. He was back in full restraints, not free like the other inmates were now, and he nearly tripped trying to keep up.

“This guy’s got an appointment with the warden,” Smith explained to another officer who was guarding the door. The officer unlocked it and let them through without question. They were now in what Neal suspected was the prison’s medical section. This was his chance and his mind came alive with plans on how he might convince the prison doctor to place a call to the FBI. But those plans were quickly dashed when Smith shoved him sideways into an exam room that was better than a prison cell and greeted a very attractive young woman who didn’t even look old enough to have a PHD by sweeping her off her feet and kissing her full on the mouth.

“Delores, my angel, how are you?” Something about the fading bruises carefully concealed under her makeup told Neal the happy answer she gave next was not the truth.

“Oh Smithy! I’m so happy you’re here. They told me you were coming back today!”

Smith set the woman down and looked her in the eye. “How’s my girl?”

“Still waiting for you to come over tonight and tell me all about your trip to New York City.” The way she said it reminded Neal of an old salsa commercial he’d once seen. 

“Listen D, I need you to do something for me, ok?”

The woman’s eyes went wide. Smith obviously had her wrapped around his little finger and Neal watched as his chances of appealing to her diminished with every saccharine word the two exchanged. “Anything for you, Smithy.”

“You see that guy there?” Smith pointed to Neal and Delores turned her empty eyes towards him. “That there is Dominic Sanchez and he’s a cop killer.”

“Brutus’ brother’s a cop,” she said, her eyes still fixated on Neal.

“Yep, and that’s why you need to mark down in your little report that you examined this one and he’s fit as a fiddle.”

“Oh I don’t know, Smithy,” Delores replied, looking back up at the officer. “I’m supposed to examine all of them. I could get fired.”

“Don’t forget who got you this job in the first place, angel face,” Smith crooned, bopping her on the nose with his finger. “Just put on your little paper that you saw him and that everything is golden. Easy as pie.”

“He’s lying to you, Delores,” Neal piped in. It was now or never.

The two pairs of eyes that had only moments ago been staring adoringly at each other turned to him. One light, one dark, both lacking compassion of any kind. 

“I’m not Dominic Sanchez.”

“What’s he talking about, Smithy?”

“Oh nothing, D. Dominic here is a real comedian. He tried to tell Larry the same thing during intake.”

“I’m telling you the truth, Delores. My name is Neal Caffrey and I don’t belong here. There’s been some kind of mistake.” He knew how he sounded, but there just wasn’t any time to turn on the patented Caffrey charm and run the long con. She seemed pliable enough, like she actually might entertain the idea, but that apparently her gullibility extended only as far as her Smithy.

“Let me get this asshole out of your hair, shall I angel face?” Smith asked, grabbing the collar of Neal’s jumpsuit yet again hauling him out of the cell with little regard to his aching muscles. The officer’s fist followed soon after. Neal could do little more than hunch over, wrap his arms around his middle and try to stay standing as his lungs attempted to escape his chest through his throat. God he was so tired of this. And not to mention still sick. He couldn’t stop coughing even as Smith manhandled him from the room. 

“Maybe I should take a look at him,” Delores said quietly, following after them. Smith let go of him suddenly and Neal collapsed against the nearest wall, trying desperately to make the coughing stop and get his breathing under control.

“Clean bill of health. Don’t make me ask you again, D,” Smith said darkly and Delores dipped her head. He raised it back up with a crooked finger beneath her chin. “That’s a good girl.”

“Then you better get going before Richards sees you with him. His head’s not even shaved.”

“Don’t worry, sweet cheeks. Where this guy’s headed, it’s not even going to matter. And you let me worry about Richards. Johnny and I have an idea that might get him fired if he tries to give you a hard time again.”

“You mean it Smithy?” Neal heard her insufferable reply.

“Would I lie to you, D?”

Neal glanced over to Delores in one last desperate attempt to catch her eye and beg for help. But the woman was already closing the door to her office. Smith grabbed him by the collar yet again and started pulling him the other way down the hall. Neal tried as best he could to follow along without stumbling. This wasn’t right. There was much more to the intake process than what he’d just been through, but Smith was apparently determined to get him away from anyone else he might talk to. He was pulled down empty corridors, past checkpoints and noisy cell blocks. Neal was nothing but a number on a piece of paper and was treated as such by the guards who opened and closed the barred doors. His attempts at getting Smith to at least talk to him went unheeded as well, until they came to a set of dark stairs leading down.

“Home sweet home, Caffrey.” Smith announced. But before Neal could even react to the fact that Smith had just used his given name, he was shoved forward. And it wasn’t one of those  _ get moving or I’ll kick your ass _ , kinds of shoves he’d been getting all day. This was a shove meant to send him tumbling down those dark stairs. A feat he achieved with a spectacular lack of grace. 

The stairs, mercifully, were not as steep, nor as treacherous as they’d first appeared, though that didn’t make hitting every single one of them on the way down any less painful. He landed at the base of the stairs with an audible thwack. But it wasn’t his head this time. It was the arm he couldn’t throw out properly to cushion his fall because he was still shackled that made the sound. Neal cried out, wrapping himself around the broken bone in the fetal position. The pain was incredible, unlike anything he’d felt previously, even after jumping off the bridge. Cold tears sprang to his eyes and dripped mutinously onto the concrete floor beneath him. Smith was not far behind him, and Neal could have sworn the man skipped down the last few steps and over to where he lay.

“Why?” he asked weakly when Smith’s face swam into focus above him.

“Because that’s what my boss paid me to do.”

“Leech?” Neal asked between clenched teeth.

Smith put a finger to the side of his nose. “Ding! Ding! Ding! I even have a message for you from him.”

Neal was starting to lose his grip on consciousness, the edges of his world dimming. His trip down the stairs and now the unimaginable pain in his arm was just too much. The pain had finally pushed him over the edge and he just couldn’t fight it anymore. He was slipping.

“He says enjoy your stay in hell and to remind you that if you try to contact anyone or tell anyone who you are, he’ll make good on the promises he made you.”

Smith grabbed Neal by the hair and started dragging him across the polished floor. No longer having the energy to defend himself, he could do little more than lie there and let it happen. When his hair proved to be an inefficient way of moving him, Smith grabbed him by the collar again and kept going.

“He also told me to tell you that if you try and contact anyone or escape in any way, he’s going to let me and Kurt Forstyhe finish the job that he started.”

“Oh that’s right,” Smith went on, not even bothering to check that Neal had heard, or understood for that matter. “Your old buddy Kurt is on his way here right now. We had to fudge the paperwork a little harder with him than we had to for you, but pretty soon he’ll be here to keep you company. I’m even going to let him have the cell next to you. How awesome is that?”

They had come to the entrance of what Neal could only assume was the solitary confinement cell that was to be his new home. Smith pulled him the rest of the way in and then discarded him like trash several inches from a filthy mattress lying on the floor. It was so thin it was little more than a mat and there was a moldy blanket folded at one end and a pillow no decent human in their right mind would ever lay their head on at the other. Above his head a single light bulb flickered in a steel cage.

“Get used to the new name, Caffrey. It’s yours for as long as you're here with me.” Smith bent over him, his dark eyes barely visible in the gloom. “Remember your message. Remember who put you here.”

Smith winked at him and then was gone. A thunderous boom echoed through the room a moment later as the heavy door to Neal’s cell was thrown shut. Alone for what felt like the first time in days, he used what little energy he had left to roll over onto his side and onto the mat. He curled up around his aching, throbbing arm, trying so hard to find a comfortable position for it considering Smith hadn’t even bothered to remove his shackles. He never found one. His exhaustion was so profound it didn’t even matter in the end. He slipped into sleep - or maybe it was unconsciousness, he couldn't tell the difference - with his head resting on that pillow no human in their right mind would ever use. 

Above him the sputtering light bulb finally gave up the fight and went out completely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I pray to god prisons are not as horrible as the one I portray in this fic. I took some creative license with the whole process, from intake to solitary. I hope anyone reading this in law enforcement will forgive me. Also for Delores. If I didn't know people just like her I would have thought someone impossible of being so obtuse. 
> 
> I wrote Neal slightly out of character in this chapter as well. I figured after jumping off a bridge, getting his head smashed into things multiple times, being so sick, and shanghaied, he might not be thinking very clearly.


	13. Common Ground

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mentions 9/11 tw

“How are we doing on that surveillance video,” Peter asked, bouncing a ball of Neal’s he’d found against the wall he was facing.

“We’re still waiting for the Marshals to send it over.” Agent Reed answered him. 

Peter caught the ball in one hand and swiveled around in his chair. Reed looked exhausted and frustrated. All the agents gathered around the conference room table did. It had been one hell of a day and not a lot had gotten accomplished. Outside the big picture windows lining the walls, night had fallen. Peter glanced at his watch and realized with a start how late it was.

“And the prison?” he asked tiredly.

“They’re not even returning our calls,” someone else answered.

“Alright, let’s call it a night everyone,” Peter said, realizing he’d get no further productive work out of anyone tonight. Especially considering there were all here well after normal business hours, and after an entire day’s work already. “I really appreciate all your hard work today. And once we find Caffrey and clear his name, he’s going to really appreciate it, too.”

“You weren’t planning on doing that without me, were you?” a voice said, and Peter’s head snapped up. Standing there in the doorway, still dressed in clothes that would have been more appropriate for the tropical vacation she’d just come from, was none other than Diana Berrigan.

“Diana! What in the heck are you doing here?” Peter asked, jumping out of his chair and pulling his agent into a hug before she hardly had time to set her luggage down. Neither one of them were really huggers, but Peter couldn’t help himself. Having Jones holed up in the hospital and Diana on vacation had put a serious strain on his resources. Her arrival, however unexpected, was a godsend. 

“Who called you?”

“Jones and his mom, of course. You couldn’t expect me to just sit there on a beach reading books for the next week and a half while our boys were in trouble, could you?”

“Diana...” Peter said, finally letting her go, “your vacation.”

“Cabo can wait,” the agent replied, rolling her suitcase over to one corner of the room and unwrapping the scarf from around her neck. It was the only piece of winter gear she’d come in with. “Tell me what happened.”

While the rest of the agents packed up their gear and disappeared from the conference room one by one, Peter did just that. He went through everything: Leech, his suspicions, what he assumed had happened up on the bridge after Jones’ and Neal’s car accident, and finished with his rather unfortunate visit to Rikers.

“And Hughes is  _ still _ getting heat for that,” he finished, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

“I can see why you might think Leech is behind all of this. His showing up the same day all this went down cannot be a coincidence.”

“Exactly what I was thinking.”

“Have they located Neal yet?” Diana asked.

“When I left the prison they had just finished a search of the grounds with no luck. Took all day, too. I’ve been promised that they are doing everything they can to locate our ‘escaped convict’.”

Diana shook her head. “So they’re still convinced he escaped, huh?”

“Yes, though they did promise to review any footage they might have from when Neal first arrived and then forward me anything suspicious.”

“Like that’s ever gonna happen,” Diana snorted, coming to the same conclusions Peter had. “If they were the ones who screwed up, you can bet that footage is going to disappear as quickly as the rest of my vacation.”

“I’m really sorry about that. Is Christie mad?”

“Of course she’s mad,” Diana replied. “But I left her on a beautiful beach surrounded by scantily clad beach-goers, so I’m guessing she’ll get over it eventually.”

Peter laughed then picked at a slight scratch on the table top with a fingernail. “I don’t like this, Diana. Neal could be anywhere by now and I don’t think he was ever properly checked over by a doctor.”

“I still can’t believe he jumped off that bridge,” the agent said, shaking her head.

“Neither can I. But fingerprints they lifted from the scene confirmed it. Caffrey jumped.”

“Then we better get on it, shouldn’t we? What’s our next move? Where do you want me? Where can I do the most damage?” Diana all but rubbed her hands together in maniacal glee.

Peter couldn’t help but grin back. “I need you to use those patented Diana Berrigan negotiations skills to get the Marshals to hand over their footage of Neal’s interrogation. I want the names of the Marshals who last saw him, too. Something tells me their lack of cooperation so far means they’re hiding something. And someone over there knew Neal was innocent of Jones’ murder but had him charged and sent back to Rikers anyway. I want to know why.”

“You got it, boss.” Diana agreed, determination shining bright in her eyes. If anyone was going to be able to get the footage from the reluctant Marshals it was her.

“And then if you could please go over to the hospital and sit with Jones, that would help me out as well.”

“He still hasn’t gotten his memory back?” Diana asked.

The agents rose from their chairs and Peter grabbed the winter coat that had been hanging from the back of his chair all day. He hadn’t even bothered to hang it up. It had been two days now since Neal had been forcefully removed from the office by the Marshals. No wonder he was so distracted.

“Not yet, but maybe a familiar face that reminds him of Nea will help,” Peter suggested as they made their way over to the elevators, flicking off lights as they went. Once inside the elevator, the exhaustion that had been hanging over Peter’s head seemed to finally descend and he let his head fall back against the wall with a tired sigh.

“He thinks I betrayed him, Diana,” he said, eyes closed as the elevator made its slow descent into the bowels of the building and down to it’s subterranean parking garage.

“Why?” Diana asked bluntly, and Peter could tell it was a legitimate question and not just something she was asking to get him to open up.

“I didn’t do anything to stop the Marshals. I just let them drag him off to some holding cell.”

“Neal is a smart guy, Peter. Even drugged, he’s eventually going to figure out that you had no choice.”

“I hope so,” Peter muttered as the elevator dinged and the doors opened up to the lower levels. The parking garage was absolutely freezing and they could both see their breath. 

“It's a miracle Caffrey didn’t freeze solid in this cold,” Diana commented, shivering a little.

“I think Neal’s got too much energy to ever freeze solid,” Peter said with a smile. A thought occurred to him. “Hey, do you need a lift?”

“Already got one,” Diana replied, pushing a button on the keyfob she was holding. Somewhere on another level a car horn started sounding. “Jones gave me a lift to the airport last week. My car is still here.”

“Ok, I’m supposed to be meeting a buddy of mine from the NYPD who’s got some more information on the bridge crime scene. Keep me in the loop. I’ll keep my cell close.”

“You got it boss,” his agent said again, tipping him an invisible hat. Peter felt hope rush into him for the first time in days. Diana was a well trained and gifted agent. Having her back wouldn’t completely fill the void both her and Jones’ absences had created before, but it sure as hell was a start. Diana was also very good at talking Peter down and laying out the facts in brutal and uncompromising honesty. She was the strongest woman Peter knew, well apart from El, and having her in his corner was something he knew he could really use right now.

“Watch your 6, Diana,” Peter warned before the agent could take off in the other direction and towards her car. “I made the mistake of underestimating Robert Leech when all this started. And I still don’t think we know exactly how dangerous that man is, or what he;s capable of.”

“I will,” Diana promised before walking off, the sound of her flip flops echoing in the cavernous space.

Peter made his way over to his own car, dragging his feet the entire way. He was so tired and all he really wanted to do was crawl into bed beside El and sleep for a week. But Don had called him during the day and asked to meet him at Rosa’s after the detective’s shift was over. The fact that his shift ended at midnight was just an unfortunate coincidence.

Peter all but collapsed into his car when he finally reached it, and he was just about to start up the engine when a hand emerged from the backseat of his sedan and clamped down over his mouth. He reacted instantly, throwing up an elbow that caught whoever it was directly in the nose. There was a startled yelp and then a very pissed off Mozzie was glaring at him from the rearview, sans glasses.

“Oh my god, Suit!”

“Damnit Mozzie!” they said at the same time.

“What are you mad at me for! You’re the one who just elbowed me in the face!” Mozzie disappeared behind the seat and returned a moment later, straightening his glasses. “Overreact much?”

Peter holstered the gun he had pulled from out of his coat and gripped the steering wheel. Partially in shock and partially in an effort not to climb over the seats and throttle Mozzie. “What is the matter with you? I could have killed you!”

“Maybe you did!” Mozzie shot back, tenderly prodding his nose. “I think you broke it.”

“Serves you right, sneaking up on me like that! I’m an FBI agent, Mozzie! We tend to shoot first and ask questions later.” 

“As evidenced by recent events, it would seem,” Mozzie said darkly and Peter grimaced.

“I take it you heard about Neal then.”

“Oh, I heard. In fact, I had to watch it all unfold on the evening news. Ever hear of these things called  _ cellphones _ , Suit?”

“Thought you didn't believe in those things, Mozzie.”

“Don’t pull that FBI crap with me! I know what you’re trying to do.” A finger wagged at Peter from the back seat.

“Look Mozzie, I’m sorry. It's been a very long and trying few days. Calling you slipped my mind. That was my mistake, and I apologize. As Neal’s friend, you should have been the first one I called.” 

And it was partially true at least. Peter had nearly overlooked an invaluable asset. Mozzie could go places, get his hands on information Peter could only dream of. The bespectacled con man really was the first call he should have made.

“Can you at least tell me if he’s ok?” Mozzie asked from the back.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t  _ know? _ ” came his astonished reply.

“He was being transferred to Riker’s yesterday morning and somehow got confused with another inmate.” For the thousandth time in two days, Peter found himself explaining the entire situation to yet another person. By the time he was done, Mozzie’s face was unreadable.

“If anything happens to him, Suit, I will never forgive you.”

“You won’t have to. If anything happens to him, I’ll never forgive myself.”

“You realize of course that I will not just sit idly by and watch as the federal government disappears another one of my friends.”

“I never suspected for a minute that you would.”

“And that I will do everything in my power to find him,” Mozzie finished, his face appearing over Peter’s shoulder.

“Exactly what I was hoping for,” Peter replied in earnest. “Could you just do one small favor for me while you do?”

Mozzie was silent for a long while, “Bold of you to ask, but continue."

“That DOJ rep I was telling you about...”

“The one you think had a hand in all this?”

“Him. Would you look into him? Dig up anything you can on him. Get as dirty as you need to. I don’t care. Just find me a connection between that man and Neal, and maybe even some evidence on why he might have done this and how.”

“Consider it done,” Mozzie agreed. “His name?”

“Leech,” Peter answered, “Robert Leech.”

* * *

Manhattan was a completely different place after dark, and one that never truly slept. Even in the dead of hours of night, the blood still pulsed through her veins. It came in the form of prostitutes trying their best to avoid getting busted and yet still attract a john. The engines of the trucks making their midnight deliveries and the dead eyes of the late shift workers. Peter passed them all as he made his way up from the subway station and over to the little 24 hour coffee shop where he and Murphy had agreed to meet. His impromptu conference with Mozzie in the back of his car had thrown him off so he’d ditched the car at home and taken the subway instead.

He wasn’t really sure why. His suit earned him more than one sidelong glance from the smattering of passengers riding the rails with him. Maybe it was to clear his head, or get a different perspective. Remind himself maybe that the earth was still spinning, despite evidence to the contrary. Whatever the reason, Common Grounds was a welcomed sight once he reached it - well after midnight, but all well - the divine scent of freshly brewed coffee washing over him as he entered. And not that stuff they brewed at the office, or had the nerve to call coffee at New York Presbyterian. This was the real stuff that it’s owner, Rosa, ground fresh daily with her own two hands. 

Peter’s eyes flicked down to a large crack in the door as he walked through it. It had been there for years, and would probably stay there for many more years to come. At least until Rosa sold the place, but even then Peter suspected she might require keeping it just as it was, as part of the sale. It had been cracked on 9-11 and this particular neighborhood in Manhattan saw it as a bit of a shrine. A sacred place of remembrance. Peter said his own little prayer as the door swung shut behind him on the tinkling of bells.

Rosa, a cheerful woman in her late 40s Don had busted a time or two for solicitation in her younger years, and then shacked up with in secret after she got clean, was behind the counter when he arrived. For a Manhattan coffee joint, the place was surprisingly spacious. Rosa had redecorated in a Japanese tea room sort of flare and red light was splashed over everything from paper covered lanterns. She greeted him with a warm smile as he shrugged out of his coat.

“The usual, Peter?”

“That’d be great. Thanks Rosa.” he replied, throwing his coat into the booth Don was already occupying and sliding in after.

“How many years have we been coming here?” he asked his friend, situating himself on the spongy bench.

“However long it’s been since you told us you were going to Quantico instead of the academy and you became dead to me,” Don answered from over a steaming cup of coffee. He was wearing a pair of glasses Peter knew he hated and the curls of steam were fogging up the lenses.

Peter chuckled. There was a reason he and Don Murphy had remained friends all these years, even after the great Quantico debacle. “What have you got for me?”

“Coroner's report on the dead guy from the bridge,” Don said, passing him a file. “And some results from a few partials my guys were able to pull off that Ford.”

“I thought you said you’d only found Neal and Jones’ at the scene?” Peter asked, grabbing the file.

“I had my guys comb every inch of that rust bucket. It took them a while on account of all the hands that have been on that thing recently, but they were able to pull a few fresh prints. I think the results are gonna surprise you.”

Don took off his glasses and set them down on the table. A moment later Rosa arrived with a coffee mug for Peter and an entire carafe of extras, should they need refills. “I’ll just leave this here for you,” she said. “I’ll be in the back while you two talk. Holler if you need anything.” Rosa’s hand brushed against Don’s arm as she passed. He grabbed it and pressed a kiss to the back of it.

Peter averted his eyes back down to the file he’d just been handed. “Jeremiah Park and Spencer Abrams,” he read aloud. “Why do those names sound so familiar?”

“One of them’s a local. That’s the guy’s who’s guts we spent hours scraping up off the bridge the other day. Park is the one you recognize. He’s on one of your most wanted lists.”

It was coming back to Peter now. Even the agents working for White Collar knew enough to keep up on the names that made it onto the FBI’s most famous list. He went over in his mind all the crimes he could remember being attributed to Park. He had to take a sip of his coffee to warm himself back up. The guy was bad news.

“You sure about this?” he asked, his throat suddenly dry.

“Well,” Don said, “they were both partials and in pretty rough shape, but it seems to fit.”

“I’m surprised they left any fingerprints behind at all.”

“We got very lucky.”

Peter sighed. “So Jeremiah Park is back in my city and no one bothered to tell me,” he muttered as he flipped over to a picture of the man himself. Cold, unfeeling eyes stared back at him from the photo. They were nothing like the ones in the last mugshot he’d seen.

“I don’t think he was on anyone’s radar,” Don added. “I usually hear chatter about these things but no one has heard anything from Jeremiah Park in months.”

Peter finished his first cup of coffee and went for another. The first one he’d left black and strong, welcoming the undoctored caffeine into his body like an addict. The second he added a little packet of imitation sweetener to - the blue kind even though El was always going on about the horrible chemicals they put in the stuff - and continued his perusal of the rap sheets belonging to their one dead, and one very much alive, would be kidnappers.

“Well Spencer sure wasn’t anything to write home about,” he muttered as he read through their list of crimes.

“I had a few run-ins with Spencer over the years. Mostly enforcer stuff. The guy was a real piece of work, for sure.” Don took a sip of coffee. “No one’s gonna be crying over that bastard’s body in the morgue tonight.”

Don wasn’t kidding. Spencer was wanted for questioning in more than a dozen assaults, had several outstanding warrants, and at least three different women with restraining orders against him. He had no known children, thank god, and no living relatives. Just a very long list of known associates. Even Peter could recognize a few of the names on the list.

“Park’s name is there,” Don said, pointing to the serial killer’s name. “Jeremiah Park. Now that guy makes Spencer look like a Boy Scout.”

Peter nodded. It usually took people 5 drinks before they could get him talking about the crimes some of those men on the Most Wanted list had committed. If Neal had even come within 15 feet of the man, then it was a miracle he’d made it out alive. Or Jones for that matter. Had Neal not run and distracted Park, as Peter suspected he had, then Jones likely never would have made it off that bridge alive. A lot had gone wrong with this mess so far, but maybe a lot had gone right, too. Only Peter was too focused on the now to realize it. Maybe Diana and a slowly recovering Jones could help.

“Looks like Spencer had been spending an awful lot of time with Park,” Don went on after another sip of coffee. Somewhere in the back of the shop a phone rang. “I had the unfortunate pleasure of stumbling onto one of their little hideouts on this missing person’s case I’ve been working. Found the body of the woman I was looking for, but no sign of Park. I’m guessing he split as soon as Spencer was, well… you know.” 

“Was decimated by box truck?” Peter offered.

Don put his hands up. “Hey, you said it, not me.”

Peter closed the file in front of him and folded his hands over it, his mind going a mile a minute. “A lot of questions and not many answers.”

“Well you know your guys were there, fingerprints confirmed that. We also know from witness statements that your guy Caffrey fought with the two men and it escalated enough that one got taken out by an eighteen wheeler and the other chased him down in broad daylight with a gun. To me, that sounds like all the proof you need that your boy was being kidnapped.”

“To us it does, yeah,” Peter replied. “But those bigwigs in DC? At the DOJ? They’re going to want something more than that if I’m ever going to clear Neal’s name.”

“Assuming you can find him first,” Don pointed out.

“Oh yes, thank you for the reminder, Don. I had almost forgotten,” Peter shot back sarcastically. The detective offered him an apologetic grimace.

“You can keep that,” he spoke again as Peter began sliding the folder back over to him. “I made copies.”

“Your morbid sense of humor aside, I really appreciate all your help on this Don,” Peter said, grabbing for his coat. The sun would be up soon and if he didn’t get his butt home and at least kiss El on the cheek before heading back into the office in the morning, he would never forgive himself. 

“Anything for you  _ Agent _ Burke” Don smiled, “even if you did betray us all and become a fed.”

Peter snorted as he unfolded himself from the booth. “What do I owe you for the coffee?”

“Nothing, of course,” Rosa herself answered, backing out of the double doors that led into her kitchen. Incredible smells followed in her wake, making Peter’s mouth water. Rosa’s pastries were to die for. The neighborhood loved them so much that pretty soon, once the inhabitants of Manhattan began to stir, her little coffee shop would be so packed, it would be standing room only. She held out a bag of what Peter could only assume was an assortment of his favorites with a smile. “You just tell El to come see me soon and this one’s on the house.”

“You’re a godsend, Rosa,” Peter said, opening the bag and inhaling the ridiculously delicious aromas trapped inside.

“Careful, Burke,” Don piped up from his booth. “She’s already spoken for.”

Peter gave Rosa a wink and then turned to leave. Outside the coffee shop, Manhattan was already starting to come alive, shedding the moroseness of night under the gathering light of dawn in the east. Somewhere in Clinton Hill, Elizabeth Burke would be stirring soon and realizing her husband had not come home for the night. He thought of bringing her coffee, but knew it wouldn’t help.

“Hey Burke,” Don called before Peter could leave. He turned around with his hand still on the door. “Be careful out there ok?”

It was a phrase that kept getting repeated, by him and at him. Peter knew Don’s was a warning about Park without his friend having to explain further.

“Always,” he replied, and plunged back out into the frigid dawn.


	14. Day One

He was pulled from sleep by the screech of metal. The little window cut into the middle of his door, he figured, but had neither the energy nor the drive to roll over and check. The rattle of a tray being set down on the ledge outside was all the confirmation Neal needed.

“Oy! Sanchez!” A new voice called. A voice that did not belong to Smith, Neal realized with all the delighted detachment of someone who had just spent the entire night on the floor of a solitary confinement cell, freezing his ass off and battling illness and pain. 

“Rise and shine, you bastard.”

Neal cracked his eyes open, but only one obeyed. The other was swollen shut again and the swelling had apparently not gone down during the night. He was in the exact same position he’d rolled into after Smith had left, back to the door and curled up on his side on his pathetic excuse for a mattress.

“Dude! I’m serious. Get the fuck up, now. It’s chow time!” His tray was rattled again, but Neal doubted he could have moved even if he wanted to. The pain in his arm had only just calmed down and he was terrified that, if he did move it, he’d likely start screaming. And screaming like a baby in solitary was something they only did in the movies. Bad movies. B movies. Like the ones he used to watch with Kate on lazy afternoons when their coffers were as full as their bellies...

_ Well great _ , Neal thought to himself. Either he’d been drugged again, or his fever was spiking. It had brought all sorts of fun nightmares to him last night, and he wasn’t too keen on relieving any of them again.

“Don’t make me come in there, Sanchez!” The person who was not Smith was now bending over and talking at him directly through the open window. Neal remained where he was, too utterly exhausted to do much else than blink at the wall.

“You better be dead in there, Sanchez, or so help me god…” the voice said again. There was a muffled curse, the jangle of keys and then the door to Neal’s cell was being thrown open. The rough hands were next, though they weren’t as rough as Smith’s, rolling him onto his back. The movement did exactly what he’d expected it to do and it took clenching his jaw down so hard he thought his teeth might crack, to keep from screaming.

“Jesus,” his visitor breathed, “they sure did a number on you.” 

The guard reached down and started unlocking the restraints still encircling Neal’s wrists and ankles, muttering as he went. “And how many goddamn times do I need to tell that bastard he’s gotta take these things off  _ before _ he puts you animals back in your cages.”

His restraints were tossed onto the floor near the door as the rough hands returned. The new guard helped ease Neal up into a sitting position against the wall. The careful way the man avoided his arm dared Neal to hope. Then again, the guy had just called him an animal. 

Neal squinted at the name stitched on the man’s uniform. He was called Richards.  _ Oh _ .

“Do you think you can eat?” the guard asked, eyeing him with uncertainty. “You know, eat?” He pantomimed shoveling food into his mouth. Either he thought Neal was deaf or maybe didn’t understand English. Or maybe he was just an asshole. Neal couldn’t decide yet.

“I can feed myself, if that’s what you're asking.” His voice now sounded like he’d spent the night gargling razor blades. Felt like it too.

‘Oh thank  _ god _ ,” Richards muttered. 

A tray of food was placed in his lap. It was another cheese sandwich by the look of it, complete with a glob of gelatinous applesauce and some rather unappetizing looking potato wedges. He used that term rather loosely, considering the wedges looked like they might come in handy should he decide later that he needed something sturdy to tunnel out of this place with. Neal bypassed all of it and went straight for the water. He couldn't remember the last time he’d had something to drink. His water was in a paper cup, and was lukewarm and tasted strongly of minerals, but it was clean and clear and it offered some relief to his very parched and very raw throat as it slid down.

When every drop had been drained he looked up at Richard’s hopefully. He was trying to get a read on the man. Half the battle of surviving in a place like this was choosing your associates wisely. He could already tell Richards wasn’t as big of a dick as Smith. He was single, probably recently divorced, judging by the tan line on his ring finger. He was in his early 40s and well nourished, so maybe still married, and just took his ring off while he was working. That made more sense, Neal figured and settled in on married. His hair was fair and his face was long and he reminded Neal a little bit of a horse. The guy had been treating Neal like garbage so far - except for that one moment he’d helped him sit up - but wasn’t that how prison guards were supposed to treat prisoners? Wasn’t that kind of their job? To treat each inmate the same. To be hard. Distant. Cold. To try and make friends in a place like this was to court death, because all it took was one misstep on their part and that same inmate they’d grown close to was shanking them in the back or throwing a week’s worth of hoarded feces in their face. 

And the situation could so easily be reversed. One slip of the tongue in front of the guard you thought you could trust and the next day you were getting thrown in solitary and a price was being put on your head with an entire prison gang on your tail. So far Richards hadn’t clocked him in the head or pushed him down the stairs. He could have easily slid Neal’s tray in and been done with it, but he hadn’t. Maybe this was why Smith was plotting to get the guy fired. Maybe he was a decent person.

“Could I get some more water?”

Richards scowled back. “What do I look like to you, a goddamn waiter? You’ll get what you’re rationed, inmate.”

Asshole and enemy it was then.

Richards stayed with him in the cell while Neal ate, standing in one corner with his arms crossed over his chest and shaking his head as Neal chewed slowly with his broken arm cradled carefully against his chest. The applesauce was unsweetened and the potato wedges turned out to be stone cold. He forced them down his throat anyway, where they congealed together in the pit of his stomach and stayed there. Every inch of him was still in pain, but his arm pulled most of his focus. He’d have to try and fashion some sort of sling for it if he ever expected it to start healing. His throat was maybe the second worst thing, so swollen he was kicking himself for not saving some of his water for the rest of his meal. It was becoming nearly impossible to choke down his dry sandwich. Fever made everything brighter than normal and he could see through his one good eye that his cell contained a sink and a toilet that he hadn’t noticed yesterday when Smith was dragging him in. Good, he would need it later when this rather disgusting meal made a reappearance.

“They bring you in last night?” Richards asked as Neal forced down yet another bite of the tasteless crap they had put on the tray and tried to pass off as food. But he needed to eat. He needed to keep up his strength. He had to keep himself alive long enough for Peter to come through and save the day. Not even Smith or the Marshals or Leech could beat that hope out of him that his handler, his friend, would find some way to get him out of this. He just had to keep himself alive until then.

Neal nodded in response to Richard’s question, swallowing painfully. Each bite of sandwich he tried to force down was like trying to swallow rocks.

“Did Smith give you a rundown of how we do things down here?”

Neal shook his head this time, wincing. The fever was giving him one hell of a headache. It hurt to even swivel his eyes back up to the guard.

“Of course he didn’t,” Richard muttered. “Ok, here’s how this goes. Smith and me are the main guards down here. Sometimes there's Andrews, but she only works a swing shift or two every so often. Inmates down here get meals twice a day, showers every four, and usually about an hour in the yard for exercise daily. Though I’m not sure you’ll get much yard time.”

“Oh?” Neal asked around a mouthful of potatoes that reminded him more of cement than real vegetables.

“Word around the prison is, the warden is worried one of us might try to shoot you in the head and then claim you were trying to escape,” Richards explained, an amused glint in his eye. Neal didn’t find it quite so funny. 

“A word to the wise, Sanchez, though you don’t deserve it,” Richard continued. “Don’t expect to make any friends in here. There’s a special place in hell for cop killers like you.”

Neal forced his last bite of barely cooked potato down his throat. “That wasn’t me.” 

He might as well have said ‘I didn’t do it’. As soon as the words were out of his mouth he knew they were the wrong ones because Richards’ threw his head back and laughed. Neal could have kicked himself for being so stupid. Even though he knew there was no way he was ever going to talk his way out of the maximum security solitary confinement wing of a state penitentiary, the least he could do was try and play this just a little smarter. When had he gotten so off his game?

_ “When you jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge,” _ his brain suggested.  _ “When Leech slammed your head into the table. When Smith pushed you down the stairs.” _

He needed to get a grip.

Richard kept laughing and there was no kindness behind it. “That’s what they all say.”

“I’m serious,” Neal tried, even though he knew he’d lost the hand.

“They all say that, too.”

Neal’s tray was now empty, and Richards retrieved it from his lap.

“What if I told you one phone call to the FBI was all it would take for you to get promoted to warden of this place?”

Richards looked at Neal like he was nuts, but he didn’t turn around to leave with the empty tray either.

“One call, that’s it,” Neal said, grabbing onto the sliver of hope that was now presenting itself.

“And just who would I be calling?” Richards asked.

“Peter Burke with the FBI. He works in the White Collar division.” 

Richards started laughing again. Neal tried to get up onto his feet, to make the other man understand, but he was still too weak. He got as far as leaning away from the wall, and then the coughing started. And once that began, there was no stopping it. It aggravated his arm and exploded stars behind his eyes. It was agony, unending agony, and he had no way of escaping it. None of it. Not this cell or Smith or Richards or his damn bronchitis. He closed his eyes against it and imagined his own bed at June’s. Felt the softness of his pillows under his face before he realized he’d just fallen over and landed on his disgusting pillow, still in his cell. The scent of June’s lovely perfume was in his nose, just a touch of it on the breeze, like she’d just waltzed through the room on her way to the veranda. He was tearing up by the time it was all over, but thankfully the coughing, and the sweat pouring down his face and dripping off the edge of his nose was enough to mask it.

“Wow, Sanchez,” Richards said. “How in the hell did you ever make it through medical?” But it was more of an afterthought than a real question as the guard headed for the door.

“I’ve been asking myself that same question,” Neal answered in his mind, unable to find his voice. Like his ability to draw breath into his congested lungs, it had failed.

The door to his cell was drawn closed, and the lightbulb above his head flickered and then dimmed.

_ “I think you might be screwed, _ ” Peter’s voice sounded in his head. “ _ Too bad I'm not there to get you out of it. Again.” _

“You never had to get me out of things like this, Peter,” Neal answered back into the gloom with his razor blade voice, knowing full well how insane he sounded talking to no one. “I got  _ myself _ out of those scrapes. I just let you think you were helping me every so often.”

_ “Bet you could use my help now.” _

Neal sniffed and wiped his nose with the sleeve of his prison jumper with his good arm. “I’ve got it handled.”

_ “Of course you do,” _ Peter said from his mind.  _ “Of course you do, Neal." _

Richards visited his cell one more time that day, or what Neal figured had been later that day. Like back in his little interrogation room at the US Marshals office, time was impossible to monitor in solitary. All he knew before passing out again was that Richards had tossed a pillowcase into one corner of his room on his last visit. Or at least Neal thought he might have. It was there the next morning anyway. 

He fell asleep on his side again, on the cold floor that felt so nice against his flushed face, in much the same position as before: back to the door and lulled to sleep by what he was quite certain was nothing more than a hallucinated pipe drip in the wall. His congested lungs and aching arm made his rest fitful. Even so, he dreamt of June.


	15. A Break in the Case

“I got it,” Diana announced, holding a small thumb drive aloft in the air. Peter pushed away from the table he was sitting at and practically rushed his agent.

“How?”

“A lady never reveals her secrets,” Diana laughed, plopping the small drive into Peter’s outstretched palm. He cradled it protectively against his chest as he made his way back over to their table. Diana shrugged out of her coat and threw it over one of the hooks just inside the door. She greeted Reed with a cheerful smile and then proceeded to commandeer an empty chair from a nearby table. Reed scooched over a bit to make room and Rosa, who had been hovering over them all morning, set a steaming cup of coffee down in front of the agent. Diana took off her gloves, picked up the mug with both hands and inhaled deeply. “Oh God, Rosa. I think I may be in love with you.”

Peter could see the agent’s hands were already red and chapped from the Manhattan weather. She had to have been regretting her decision to cut her vacation short. 

Peter chuckled as he uncapped the thumb drive. “Better not let Christie hear you say that.”

“That woman is on a beach sipping tropical drinks out of pineapples with little umbrellas in them right now. She no longer has a say in who I love.”

“Who’s Christie?” Reed whispered, leaning in close to Peter as Rosa and Diana discussed her cream and sugar options for a moment.

“Significant other,” he whispered back.

“Oh!” Reed said, straightening up again with a smile.

Thanking Rosa himself as she set a fresh plate of pastries down for them and topped his coffee cup off, Peter pushed the little thumb drive into the port on his computer and waited with baited breath for the harddrive to register the device. There were a few suspenseful moments when a driver had to be installed before the files could be opened, but pretty soon they were ready. 

All of the drive’s 64 gigs had been taken up by three massive files. Peter clicked on an orange and white icon and tapped on the tabletop nervously as the media player began to load. He adjusted the position of the laptop so the two women with him could also see. A few seconds later, an interrogation room came into view.

A man sat behind the table, his head resting on his arms. Peter instantly recognized who it was. No one could miss that shock of dark hair, still so perfectly coiffed, even after a trip into the East River. 

Peter wasn’t sure how to feel about the first real glimpse of Neal he’d gotten since this whole thing started. Angry? Relieved? The footage was grainy and not the best, but there was no denying the guarded way in which he shifted in his seat or the way his fingers always seemed to flutter up to massage at his eyes every few minutes. Even from this angle, Peter could tell Neal had been beaten and was in considerable pain. It was there in the sag of his shoulders and the way he kept putting his head back down on his arm. When Neal leaned over and started to heave, Peter nearly threw the laptop across the room. 

The whole situation was unacceptable. A huge miscarraiage of justice. This wasn’t the purpose of the US Marshals, to beat up innocent men and deny them medical care. Not when they were going based on the accusations of one man who hardly knew Neal or what he was capable of. Baseless accusations with no proof, that’s what Leech’s theories were. The Marshals were lucky Peter had not viewed this footage with them in their own office. He likely would have decked someone, or at least arrested every single one of those bastards. But there would be time for all that later. 

“Is there sound?” Peter asked when two men dressed in suits finally entered Neal’s room. Reed’s hand whipped out and suddenly Peter could hear their voices.

_“Well look who finally decided to join the land of the living. Hands on the table, Caffrey.”_

_“I should probably see a doctor…”_

The longer the video played, the angrier Peter became, having to look away several times to keep from swearing out loud. Diana was not so subtle with her language and let the curses fly. Reed just sat between them, quietly taking notes, in that calm, reserved way of hers. 

Peter and Diana both shut up, however, when something startled the two men in the room with Neal and they both turned around in their seats.

_“Get out,”_ a low voice said off camera and Peter instantly knew it was Leech. He’d recognize that snide voice anywhere. 

He found himself leaning in closer to the screen, just waiting for that one shining moment when the rat bastard showed his face and Peter would have him. 

Only the moment never came. 

There was a flash of dark hair and a forehead in the frame for a fraction of a second before the camera started to shake and then cut off completely. 

“Oh come on,” Peter muttered to himself as all three agents reached for the laptop at the same time. Reed and Diana backed off immediately and let Peter take the wheel. 

The first file was done and the second sat waiting in the queue, only the media player was having trouble loading all that data. Peter had to resist the urge to drum his fingernails on the tabletop again, a habit he’d picked up over the course of the last few days. It was very obviously driving everyone around him nuts, but they were all too polite or lost in their own worries and fears over Neal to say anything to him about it. There would be lots of apologies to make once all this was all over; long hours, short leashes, and even shorter fuses... But first they had to find Neal.

Peter flexed his fingers while he waited for the footage to load and then banged a fist on the table once it did. Neal was once again alone in the room and the camera was being plugged back in by one of those Marshals from before. But that wasn’t what had made Peter bang on the table. It was the sight of Neal sitting there in his chair, the side of his face dark with something that could only be blood.

“God damn it!” Peter swore, no longer caring who heard. It was as much for the state Neal was now in as it was for the fact that his last best chance at proving Leech was behind all of this had just gone up in smoke. There was one more file on the thumb drive, but Peter didn’t even bother clicking on it. What was the point?

“Slow down there boss, this doesn’t mean anything,” Diana tried to calm him down as Peter got up from his seat and started pacing. He scrubbed at the stubble along his jaw line. “So Leech cut the feed. We still have the two Marshals who “lost him” on the way to Rikers.”

“You mean the two Marshals we can’t locate at the moment?” Peter responded back with more force than he intended. His fuse was so short these days, now that he was getting less and less sleep every night. Dividing all his time between the office, the little corner of Rosa’s they’d all taken over, and the hospital with Jones was taking a toll on his nerves.

“They’ll turn up,” Diana promised. “You’ve got every agent in the office working this case now. Something is bound to break. It’s only a matter of time.”

Diana was right about that first part at least. Peter did have half the office working to track down the two Marshals who transferred Neal to Rikers and the other half trying to find Neal himself. Hughes spent a lot of time in his office these days, pretending like he didn’t see what was going on. Mozzie was focused on Leech. 

And speaking of Leech, they hadn’t really heard anything from him, which was making Peter nervous. He hadn’t even gotten the promised call from the man’s office about his “behavior” the day Neal was taken. Which could only mean that Leech was lying low, planning something, rearranging the pieces on the board in ways no one could see yet. And Peter? Well, Peter felt like a broken time clock left forgotten on the edge of the table. He was supposed to be timing the match, but now he had no control over it whatsoever.

“I think I need a break,” Reed informed them, getting up from the table and stretching her arms up over her head with an audible crack. “I’ll be back in a few.” 

Peter watched her go, reminding himself to talk to Hughes about having her permanently reassigned to their division when all this was over. Reed was smart, and they could always use more smart at White Collar. Especially once they got Neal back.

And they were going to get Neal back. Come hell or high water. 

They had too.

Peter sat down in his chair and pulled it back up to the table with enough force that Rosa looked over from her cash register and the customer she was helping. “I need something, anything that connects Leech to all this. Some shred of evidence so I can drag him into an interrogation room and get my hands on him.”

“We’ll find it, boss,” Diana promised again, but Peter wasn’t sure he believed her, or that she even believed it herself.

Peter rubbed at his eyes. “I’m sorry, Diana. I’m just a little on edge.”

“Caffeine and no sleep will do that to you, Boss,” she replied, patting his knee under the table.

Peter dropped his hands. “God, I didn’t even think to ask you. How’s Jones?”

“Frustrated,” Diana said decidedly, like she was already anticipating the question and had her answer ready. “Pissed. Angry at himself for not being able to remember much of anything. But happy to be going home today, I think.”

“I bet.”

“And I think he’s pretty anxious to start helping us with Caffrey’s case.”

Peter sighed, stirring at his now lukewarm coffee with a spoon. The tiny tendrils of cream that had separated from the dark liquid had gathered at the top and made strange patterns as he swirled them. “I know that. And if it was just the broken leg he was dealing with, I’d let him. But the man has a serious concussion. It’s going to take him a while to get back to 100%.”

_“And I can’t afford to make any more mistakes,”_ Peter wanted to add, but didn’t.

“I think he gets that, boss,” Diana replied, like she really did get it all, even the parts he’d left off. “It’s just going to be a big adjustment for the guy. You know how Jones can be."

Peter did know. Just like he knew he would never let Jones leave White Collar without a good explanation and one hell of a fight. He was smart and loyal and an incredibly hard worker. Just like Reed and Diana. The thought of him under guard back at the hospital still made Peter’s blood boil. 

He abandoned his spoon with a clatter. “Where are we at with Rikers?” It was time for a change of subject. 

“Ah, yes. Rikers,” Diana said, shaking her head. “I’m still working on that. Warden Jeffries is a… difficult man.”

“I could have told you that,” Peter said with a smile. 

“His office is not returning any of my calls, but I have a plan.”

Peter leaned in. “Oh, this oughta be good.”

But before Diana could even start, Rosa approached their table with a fresh pot of coffee in one hand and a plain, white envelope in the other. 

“Peter, I’m sorry to bother you, but some goofy little fella just dropped this off for you at the back door.” 

She handed him the envelope. He tore it open and found a handwritten note inside. 

_Someone’s watching you. Black sedan down the street._

Peter twisted around in his chair and glanced out the coffee shop windows. Sure enough, there was a black sedan idling a little ways up the block.

“What is it?” Diana asked but Peter held up a finger as he kept reading. 

_Washington Square Park. 2 hours. Come alone. If you don’t, I’ll know._

“Rosa,” Peter said, handing the note to Diana so she could read it for herself, “did this goofy little man happen to have a bald head and thick glasses?”

“He sure did,” Rosa replied.

Peter sighed. “I thought as much. Thank you.”

Rosa nodded and then headed back to her register. 

“Do you want me to go with you?” Diane asked as a plan began forming in Peter’s head.

“I should probably go alone.” 

He glanced over his shoulder again at the black sedan. It’s windows were tinted and he couldn’t see inside. “But do you think you could go distract whoever’s out there while I make a break for it?”

“Do I ever,” Diana replied with a smile. 

After explaining the situation to Reed once she returned, Peter gathered up his things and exited the coffee shop through the back. His car was parked in a little private lot Rosa shared with her neighbors. The area was normally used for deliveries, as most of the other tenants around her were businesses as well, but she never had a problem with Peter using the space that was normally reserved for Don. The detective was on shift today anyway.

It was cold in the car when he finally climbed in, and Peter had to give the defroster a few minutes to excavate him some clear glass from beneath the frost. When he could actually see properly, he inched his vehicle down the narrow alleyway and towards the street. Diana was already approaching the sedan, though Peter didn’t take off in the opposite direction until he saw her start yelling and throw her arms up over her head. He peeled off down the street, watching his rearview closely.

No one followed.

* * *

Washington Square Park was surprisingly busy when Peter arrived there about an hour and a half later. He was still early, despite heavy traffic and the few wrong turns he’d strategically taken to throw off any tails. The sun was out and people were meandering up and down the paved paths or sitting on the benches. The sun had been out for days and had drawn its worshipers out of their homes like pilgrims to bask beneath it. Peter watched them as he passed under the big arch at the front of the park. Partly to keep an eye out for anything suspicious, but also because he envied them. He envied their carefree smiles and easy conversations. The fact that none of them seemed worried or afraid, or like they were carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders. The sandwich shop Peter planned to meet El at for lunch was near this park. Perhaps he would suggest they brave the cold and eat their lunches out here.

Peter glanced down at his watch and picked up the pace. He was pretty sure where he needed to go, but one never knew with Mozzie. He made his way past two men playing chess at one of the old stone tables where Bobby Fischer himself had once played. The fountain to his left was as empty as the trees surrounding it and a couple had climbed into the center of the empty pool. They sat on the concrete housing that held the plumbing, making out with reckless abandon. Peter shook his head at them and kept on towards the two benches he could now spot in the middle of a grassy knoll. He could feel eyes on him as he sat next to a newspaper that had been left on the seat. The date was from three days ago. The same day Neal had been taken. 

“Nice touch with the paper, _Haversham_ ,” Peter said when he finally felt someone sit on the bench directly behind him. It took everything in him not to roll his eyes. 

“The cock crows at midnight,” was Mozzie’s reply. 

“Are we seriously going to do this?”

“Don’t turn around!” Mozzie hissed when Peter nearly did. “Do you want to get me killed?”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Peter replied, deciding he’d better just play along. It’d be easier to get his answers that way. “It’s just, diamonds are a girl's best friend… and all that.” He really did roll his eyes then.

“Very good. I see you got my message.”

“I’m here aren’t I?”

“To your right you will find a newspaper,” Mozzie continued, ignoring the comment. “In it I’ve placed a file for your eyes only.”

Peter picked up the newspaper. It was heavier than he’d expected. “Couldn’t you have just emailed it to me?”

“Come on, Suit! This is serious,” Mozzie admonished, turning around on the bench and ruining the pretense all on his own. “I could take a lot of heat for what I dug up for you.”

“I’m sorry, Mozzie,” Peter said. “Truly I am. Please proceed.”

Mozzie glared at him for a moment before turning back around. “What I was _going_ to say before I was so rudely interrupted is that I found some pretty interesting dirt on our mutual friend.”

“What kind of dirt?” Peter asked, thumbing through the paper and looking for the file. It was tucked into the Lifestyle section.

“The kind that could get both of us killed,” Mozzie replied and Peter nearly froze.

“What are you talking about?”

“Tell me, Suit, does the name Jeremiah Park mean anything to you?”

Peter felt all the air leave his lungs as the temperature in the park seemed to plummet.

“Because it should,” Mozzie went on. “I do not make it a habit of poking around in the affairs of Serial Killers, Suit.”

But Peter was hardly listening as he tore the newspaper apart in his haste to get his hands on the file. If it were true, if Mozzie really had uncovered a connection between Leech and Park, then this was it. The smoking gun they’d all been waiting for. A reason to arrest Leech and drag him into an interrogation room for questioning about Neal’s disappearance. The file shook in his hands as his eyes zoomed across the pages. 

“Your buddy Leech was awfully good at covering his tracks, but you should have more than enough in there for a conviction.”

_And leverage_ , Peter thought to himself as he absorbed the enormity of the information he was holding in his hands. “Have you told anyone else about this, Mozzie?”

“No,” Mozzie shot back, sounding offended. “Of course not.”

“Then keep it that way. Stay off Park’s radar as long as you can. Leech’s, too. They’re both incredibly dangerous men and if Leech finds out what you gave me... “ But Peter couldn’t make himself say the rest. 

_Then he might kill Neal_ , or at least order the people holding him to do it. He could also decide to send Park after Jones, or anyone working the case for that matter. There were just too many unknowns at this point to go off all half-cocked, no matter how damning the evidence Mozzie had uncovered was. They had to play this smart.

“We can’t show our hand too soon,” Peter finished.

“Cute analogy, Suit, but I understand the stakes,” Mozzie replied.

Peter set the file carefully back down on the bench before turning towards the conman. He was done with the spy games. “And Neal? Anything new on him?”

“No,” Mozzie admitted with a heavy sigh. “Leech might have been a novice when it came to his financials but he’s doing an awfully good job at keeping my friend’s whereabouts a secret.”

Peter patted the side of Mozzie’s arm and didn’t miss it when the conman stiffened and moved away from him every so slightly. “I’m sorry, Mozzie. I know this is all my fault, but we are going to find him.”

“Oh I know we will,” Mozzie replied. “If something’s there, I will find it.”

And Peter knew he would. Just like he knew none of his agents would rest until Neal had been found. Why Diana had come back from her vacation so early, and why he knew he was going to have one hell of a time trying to keep Jones off this case once he was released from the hospital. It was Neal. He was the connective tissue that bound them all together. Changed all of their lives for the better, even if most of them would never admit it. Hell, if someone had told him four years ago that they’d all be feeling this way about a convicted felon, Peter probably would have laughed at them. 

Just like he would have laughed at someone had they come up to him on that bench in the park right then and told him that a bullet was about to whizz pass his body, graze his arm as it went by and imbed itself in a nearby tree.

Well, it did. 

Only Peter wasn’t laughing.


	16. Smith Unleashed

The next few days - or maybe it had only been hours - passed Neal by in a blur of pain, congestion and strange fever dreams. His two guards seemed to be on some kind of rotating shift system so sometimes it was Richards at the little window in his door with his tray of food, and sometimes it was Smith. He knew the difference not because he had the energy to roll over and check, but because Richards actually brought him his meals. Smith did not. Just poked his hand through the little window, peered in (or at least Neal assumed he did, he spent most of his time on his side with his back to the door and facing the wall) and then left again. Where he went, Neal could only guess. He was pretty sure he spied some kind of guard station on his way down those stairs the other day. Or was it yesterday? 10 minutes ago? It was impossible to tell.

There was no window in his cell and, judging from the cold dampness that always clung to his dirty mattress, Neal was pretty sure this part of the prison was underground. He also had a sneaky suspicion that this particular area wasn’t used that often because it was unlike any other kind of solitary confinement cell block he’d ever seen or heard about before. It was more like some medieval torture chamber, which made Neal wonder how much the warden really knew about what was going on down here. Leech and Smith could have fudged that paperwork, too. It didn’t explain Richards though. He could have been in on the whole thing, but Neal wasn’t so sure about that. All he was sure about these days was that he’d gotten lost in the system somehow. Wrong name, wrong prison, wrong cellblock, wrong everything.

If it were possible, the congestion in Neal’s head and chest had become worse. Three little tan pills had appeared on his last tray, compliments of Richards he figured. They’d turned out to be cold pills and they helped a bit, but it still felt like there was an elephant sitting on his chest. 

And speaking of elephants, the pain in his arm seemed to be ebbing away, so maybe the break wasn’t quite so bad as the initial pain had suggested. It was a blessing, but it also gave the rest of his ailments a chance to catch up. For Neal to realize just how achy and sore the rest of his body really was. Without the intense pain of his arm to focus on, his mind had no other choice than to focus on other hurts. And there were so many other hurts. What had Richards said to him the other day when they’d first been introduced?  _ You better be dead in there _ ? Well he was, he was dead in here.

Neal slept a lot, waking only to drag himself across his cell and pick up his food tray. When it was there, and one handed of course. The light in his cell was as sporadic as his meals, blinking on and off at random intervals and in no discernable pattern. He knew that for a fact. He kept track yet still couldn't decide if it was the work of faulty wiring, or a sadistic prison guard. It was a small matter. He had learned to navigate his small cell in the dark and the light gave him a headache anyways. He lost all track of time until one day, his cell door opened again.

“Shower time,” was all Richards would say.

Neal peeled himself up off the floor, his leg muscles trembling but holding him up. He squinted over at Richards under the sudden light that was pouring into his cell from out in the hall.  “Have you given any more thought to what I told you the other day?” 

He was referring, of course, to his offer to get the man a promotion if he would just put a call in to Peter. Or, better yet, slip Neal a phone so he could do it himself. He had the number memorized after all, a habit Mozzie had instilled in him so many years ago. Mozzie...

“Hands,” Richards ordered, acting as if Neal hadn’t even spoken.

Neal was no longer wearing his homemade splint and held his arms out cautiously, bracing himself for what Richard’s might do to his injured arm. But the guard just snapped the metal around his wrists carefully, and moved aside so Neal could exit the cell. The leg shackles were left forgotten in a corner.

Neal had never been in solitary confinement himself, but he was pretty sure Richard’s wasn’t following protocol. Any prison movie he’d ever seen before always had the inmates being ordered to face the wall while their cells were tossed and their cavities searched. Richards wasn’t doing any of that with him. Sure, he pushed Neal out into the hall with a little more force than was probably necessary, but with no shackles around his legs, he was easily able to keep his footing.

The hall outside his cell was a lot different than he remembered. That might have had something to do with the fact that he’d been dragged down it the last time, nearly unconscious from the pain of his arm and his trip down the stairs. That trip hadn’t exactly afforded him much time to get a good look around. Which was weird for him. Normally Neal was a master of his surroundings, missing nothing, picking up on every little detail. The fact that he hadn’t with this place only proved just how off his game he was. And if Neal wanted to survive this, he was going to have to pull himself together. 

The hallway was short and lit by intense lights that hurt his eyes when he made the mistake of looking up at them. Richards seemed to be in a mood, and grumpily pushed him past a heavily reinforced guard room tucked back behind the stairs he’d fallen down. Neal was worried for a moment that he’d be forced back up those stairs again, but Richards just steered him towards another hall to the left. Sensing that maybe the time was right to try Richards again after his lax treatment back in his cell, Neal plucked up the courage to address the man again.

“You know I’m not Dominic Sanchez, right?” He glanced over his shoulder at the guard who was leading him from behind.

“Eyes forward,” Richards snapped. “And head down,” he seemed to add for good measure.

Neal obeyed, but wasn’t ready to give up the fight quite yet. 

“Why do you think they rushed me through intake so fast? Why am I the only one down here?” That last part was a guess, but Richards didn't need to know that. “I didn’t even get my head shaved.”

They’d reached an open door by now. The room inside was bedecked from floor to ceiling in white tiles with a row of green running the perimeter of the room for added flare. The color was not one anyone with a discerning eye, or pride in their work, would ever choose. It was the color of gangrene and old bruises. Richards shoved him towards it with an angry exhale. 

“What part of eyes forward and head down do you not understand, Sanchez? Speak out of turn again and next time we do this I’ll bring the clippers myself.”

Ignoring the guard who stood just inside the door with arms crossed, Neal undressed and left his clothes and shoes folded neatly in a pile on a nearby bench. Like during intake, the shower was freezing cold. Neal turned what he could only assume was the hot water knob all the way over and then forced himself under the spray. It was awful. Like getting beaten up by Smith all over again. The pressure was still way too high and there wasn’t even enough warmth to help with his sinuses or massage his tired, aching muscles. He spent as little time as possible beneath it, soaping up quickly and then letting the ice cold water wash the pink tinged lather away. Forced himself to stay put under it until the swirling pink water at his feet eventually turned clear as it disappeared down the disgusting drain. When he was finished, Richards passed him a towel and a clean jumpsuit without comment. Neal dried off as best he could with one arm, actually feeling more like himself than he had in days. With the cold pills and the shower, he almost felt human. 

Well, almost.

As soon as Neal was alone in his cell again, he collapsed down onto the metal bed frame that had magically appeared in his cell while he was in the shower. The lightbulb above his head had been fixed as well and no longer flickered. There were even a few rolls of toilet paper hidden beneath his toilet. Neal thought about getting up again and going to that little window of his to see if Richards was still around to thank him, but couldn’t really bring himself to move. Yelling his appreciation of the small gestures crossed his mind, but with his little window closed, he doubted the guard would even hear. Besides, he was pretty sure his vocal cords couldn’t take the abuse. His bronchitis symptoms were quiet for the moment - probably thanks to the pills on his tray - and he didn't want to reawaken the beast. He fell sideways onto his disgusting pillow that was now inside a less disgusting pillowcase and just laid there.

The new light did a much better job of illuminating his space. Not that there was much to illuminate. Just his toilet and a sink that didn’t really work. The extra items from his prison “fish kit” and the mark he started trying to make on the wall when he decided he needed a way to tick off the days he spent here. He’d given that up for two reasons. One, the paint was too hard and wouldn’t come off, even under his nail. And two, he couldn’t tell how many days had passed. Not with the fever that kept sneaking up on him. The one that was either from being sick, or due to some infection that was beginning to incubate inside of him, thanks to his dive into the East River.

The memories of that time seemed so distant to him now. He was pretty sure he’d only been here a couple of days at most, but it still felt like a lifetime ago. The bridge, his interrogation room, the transport bus. Even his trip down the stairs seemed like it happened so long ago, and in another life. A life that wasn’t measured by meal trays and how much better his arm felt when he woke and accidentally jostled it. And speaking of arms…

Neal pushed himself up from the mattress with his good arm and searched for his threadbar blanket. It had ended up in one corner of his cell. Probably thrown there by whomever had delivered his bed. Using his one good hand, he attempted to tear a strip of fabric from the blanket lengthwise. It tore easily enough, but doing it one handed proved almost impossible. He considered using his teeth for a moment, but the idea of putting that blanket anywhere near his mouth horrified him. In the end he used his toes and soon, the fabric was tearing away. When he was done he was winded and wheezy, but he had two nice long strips of cloth. He tied both ends of one together, trying his best to gauge how much room he might need before slipping it over his head and under one arm. He slipped his broken arm through, tightened the slip knot he’d made with the ends and wrapped the remaining strip around his torso a few times for good measure. He didn’t stop until the arm was secured tightly against his chest. It was crude and it barely worked, but it seemed to stabilize whatever it was that was going on in there.

Utterly exhausted by this point, Neal laid his head back down again and drifted. It felt good to be up off the floor. Warmer somehow, even though he suspected that had nothing to do with his new elevation and everything to do with the fact that his body was starting to heat up again after his shower. And cranking up the furnace on his fever. Well, whatever the reason, it was enough comfort that he drifted off into a fitful sleep. 

Or at least he tried to. The sonic boom of his door being thrown open wasn’t exactly conducive to good sleep.

“You motherfucker!” Smith bellowed, dragging Neal off the bed so that he crashed heavily onto the floor, still stupid with sleep. “Didn’t I tell you what would happen if you made any trouble for me?”

Richards must have said something. It was the only explanation Neal could come up with for why Smith was so mad. But had the guy just made some offhand comment about Neal’s phone request, or were they working together? Passing information to each other in some good cop/bad cop con to keep him disoriented and in line? He knew he was off his game, but that much? Enough for two sadistic prison guards to pull one over on him? A con he had pulled off so many times himself, he could do it in his sleep? It couldn’t be possible.

Smith grabbed a handful of Neal’s wet hair, forcing him to sit up. He tried to grab for the guard’s wrist and bend the bones until the bones broke, but he missed. Smith was just too fast and soon a fist was connecting with the side of Neal’s face. The force of the blow sent him back to the floor, blood dripping from his split lips as he tried to stop himself with his good arm. Smith reared back to hit him again, but stopped suddenly mid punch. 

Neal wasn’t exactly sure where it came from, but he had started to laugh. His voice sounded positively wrecked, but it was there, gravely and hoarse. It was also a pretty reckless move, he realized a little too late. But whatever. It was enough to get Smith to lower his arm and let go.

Neal rolled towards the wall, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the floor as he used his good arm to sit up and prop himself against the wall. Meeting the eyes of his guard at last, Neal smiled up at him with blood stained teeth.

“You think this is funny, Caffrey?” Smith practically growled. Warning bells were going off in Neal’s head, but he was too far in to stop it now. He would play this out, regardless of the consequences.

“Someday, Smith,” he began, wiping the blood from his chin, “someday someone is going to figure out that I’m down here. And when they do, I’m going to be the one visiting you in a cell like this.” 

“Not if I kill you first,’ the guard answered darkly.

“You won’t,” Neal pushed, despite the growing storm behind Smith’s dark eyes. Despite the hands the guard was once again forming into fists. Neal’s jaw throbbed painfully in the place where Smith had struck him, right in time with his heart. But his heart wasn’t racing like it had been for the past several days. It was calm inside his chest, elevated only slightly due to being hit. He was cool as a cucumber, even as the soulless guard stared down at him. “You can’t, not if you want to stay on Leech’s good side. Otherwise, you would have done it by now.”

Smith stalked forward, straddling Neal’s outstretched legs as he went in for another blow. This time Neal was prepared, and shifted his head at the last second. The guard’s knuckles missed his face entirely and went careening into the wall beside Neal’s head. The guard let out a howl, and danced away, his hand clutched close to his chest. 

“Motherfucker!!”

Neal scrambled away, knowing instantly that he was in very serious trouble now. He needed something to protect himself with. Something to keep Smith at bay. But none of the items in his cell were going to be of any help to him now. Not one armed and helpless as he was. 

Adrenaline coursed through his veins anyway, pushing aside all the pain and exhaustion, leaving him some room to think. In one last desperate act he went for the bed frame, but who ever had installed it had bolted it to the floor. It was no use. He was a dead man.

Smith, even more pissed off than he was before, recovered quickly. He issued a noise Neal could only describe as a snarl as he charged. 

Neal tried so hard to protect himself from the onslaught that followed. To make a break for the door to his cell with only one arm. Reach that little window and call for help… But Smith seemed to have gone feral and did not stop with his fists, even the one he’d just sent into the wall, until Neal was a bloody, wheezing, barely conscious mess on the floor.

Tears that had nothing to do with emotions and everything to do with pain slid down his cheeks. Pain that was now slowly fading away. How could it not when Neal was now back in that happy, detached place that felt like home and smelled of the summer air that often blew into his apartment through the balcony window?

When it was over, Smith stood over him panting. Neal barely registered that the blows had stopped. He was too far away now to care. There was no reason to stick around. No leverage or sly words he could use to defend himself against the likes of Smith. Nothing he could do against the kind of violence the guard seemed to carry with him everywhere he went.

The man in question bent over him, grabbing his hair once again, but before he could do or say anything else, a buzzing noise in his pocket seemed to draw his attention. He dropped Neal’s head. Having no more energy or strength to keep it up, he collapsed back onto his side in front of his bed, blood collecting beneath his cheek.

Smith backed up and fished a cell phone out of his pocket. For one brief moment of lucidity Neal got this crazy idea in his head to somehow pull himself up off the floor, rush the guard, take the phone and dash out into the hall to call Peter. Smith had left the door to his cell cracked open a few inches, but Neal’s body no longer possessed the capacity. He was done. At the end of his rope. His body wasn’t built for this.  _ He _ wasn’t built for any of this.

“You are so fucking lucky,” Smith said after spending a few moments typing into his phone. He lifted it up and suddenly Neal’s cell was illuminated further by the flash of a camera. 

“Smile for your friends, Caffrey” the guard laughed, sending the photo off to its intended recipients. Leech, most likely. Maybe even Peter. 

A moment later and the man was looming over his prone form yet again. “You try anything like that again, and next time I’m bringing a friend.”

Neal barely registered the words, though the threat of them seated itself deep in his brain for retrieval later. 

He assumed it was over then, but Smith was apparently saving his best torture for last. Neal couldn't see much out of the eyes that were trying to swell shut on him again, but he didn’t miss it when Smith drew back his boot. He would have moved if he could, tried to avoid the blow he knew was coming, but he couldn’t. Smith kicked out with as much force as he could muster, and sent one steel toed boot directly into Neal’s broken arm. 

He really did scream then. The force of it tearing something apart in his throat, reopening all his wounds, past and present. It echoed around in his cell, lingering long after Smith had left the room and slammed the door behind him.

Neal wasn’t sure how long he laid there on his side on the floor, the tattered edges of his blanket hanging off the side of his bed and tickling his cheek. How long it took for his limbs to go numb or the blood to stop gathering in a puddle beneath his cheek. 

Smith should have just finished it.

What if this was it? What if this was his life going forward? He’d been holding on so tightly to the idea that Peter would come and find him, but what if he didn’t? What if his handler couldn’t put the pieces together, figure out what Leech was doing and come looking for him? That thought about his body not being built for this, it was true. He wasn’t going to survive a place like this. Not with people he hadn’t been given the opportunity or the means to manipulate yet. And how would he ever? With the constant beatings, never ending pain, and the sickness that weighed him down, muddled his thoughts, and stole his literal breath away... 

So what? They were just going to leave him in this cell to rot? Come back for him after the flesh had been picked clean from his bones by the rats. Collect his remains and dump them into some unmarked grave behind the prison? Neal was young and relatively healthy, or at least he had been up until the river and the drugs. If Smith and his own body didn’t kill him first, was he just supposed to live out the remainder of his days in this place? No one could possibly owe Leech that big a favor. So would the warden transfer him to another prison to start the process all over again? There had to be an end game, though Neal wasn’t sure he wanted to stick around to find out what that might be.

_ “Lots of questions,”  _ Peter said in his head.

“And not enough answers,” Neal replied, not sure if he’d actually spoken the words or just thought them. His hallucinated handler sat himself down on the concrete floor near Neal’s head, legs crossed.

“Go away Peter.”

_ “I will when you’re ready.” _

Neal could almost feel Peter’s hand on his head, brushing through his damp hair. It was a funny hallucination, considering he was fairly certain the FBI agent would never, ever do such a thing. But it reminded Neal of gentler times, so he went with it.

“If you don’t get here soon, I think that guy might kill me,” he said after a while.

_ “Probably.” _

“Are you coming to rescue me?” he asked, smiling weakly as he imagined Peter with a sword and shield.

_ “What do you think? _

“I think that you aren’t and that I’m on my own.”

_ “Now, now, Neal. Don’t talk like that.” _

“Why not?”

_ “Because we’re the great Neal Caffrey and we can talk our way out of anything.” _

“Not in this place we’re not,” he said aloud this time. He was sure of it because he was suddenly alone in his cell again and his throat was on fire. Peter’s hallucination had gone.

Neal shivered and reached his good hand up to pull the tattered remnants of his blanket down off the bed. Throwing it over himself as best he could, he fell asleep like that. On the cold prison floor. Wondering if the nightmare would ever end and what Peter, the real Peter, might be doing in that moment.

He didn’t dream. Or if he did, he couldn’t remember them. There was nothing left to dream about anyway. Just cold and blood and pain.


	17. Hospital Blues

“Am I done?” Peter asked as the doctor putting the finishing touches on his arm sat back to admire her handiwork.

“Yes, Agent Burke,” she said with barely concealed irritation, “you’re done. You can go now.”

Peter jumped down from the exam table and went looking for his coat. It took him a moment to remember he’d handed it off to one of his agents at the scene in the park. Also missing was most of his left sleeve. The paramedics had cut that off to get at the bullet graze on his arm. A bullet graze an exhausted looking medic named Envy had told him needed stitches and should be looked over at the hospital. He’d tried to get them to just put a bandage on it for now and let him worry about it later, but they’d guilt tripped him into going.

“Envy needs the practice,” the one named Allie had said. “Think of your wife, Agent Burke. What would she think if we let you go and this needed stitches?”

Well Peter couldn’t argue with that logic. Nor risk the wrath of Elizabeth. So he’d agreed.

_ And good thing too, _ he thought to himself as he gathered up the plastic bag he’d been given for his belongings. He stormed out of the room as quickly as possible and right into the room next door. The only reason the hospital staff let him do it was because of the woman parked on the bed inside. Diana looked up at him from behind her bandaged and scraped face.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” she promised.

Even so, Peter approached the side of her bed, eyeing the bandage warily.

“I’m serious. I even have the CT scan to prove it. I’m just waiting for them to discharge me.” 

“What the heck happened, Diana?”

“Whoever was in that black sedan tried to mow me down, that’s what happened. He didn’t of course, just sent me face first into the pavement before chasing off after you.”

Peter decided in that moment that he was entirely done with his agents being sent to the hospital. “Alright. That’s it. Everyone gets a protection detail from now on. Even Jones.”

Diana seemed ready to argue, though not entirely surprised. “Is that really necessary?”

Peter held up his arm. The white bandage encircling his upper bicep was all the proof that he needed.

“Jones is just going to  _ love _ that,” Diana muttered, seeming to imply she included herself as a part of that sarcastic love but not having the guts to say it outloud.

“There have been too many close calls today. I’m not taking any more chances.”

Matter settled, Peter set his clear plastic bag of belongings onto a chair and fished the folder Mozzie had given him out of its depths. The file he had not let out of his sight, even as the paramedics were assessing his arm in the back of their ambulance.

“Peter, anyone ever tell you shouldn’t take work home with you?” Diana ribbed him and Peter smirked.

“You’ll change your tune once I tell you what this is.”

He handed the file over to his agent, before starting to go over all the details of his meeting with Mozzie and their subsequent shootout. Mozzie had escaped unscathed, thank heavens.

“Do you think it’s enough?” Diana asked him when he finished,

“It’s got to be.”

“Peter, don’t get me wrong, I’m just playing devil’s advocate here, but won't they question this if it came from someone other than the FBI?”

“That’s where this comes in handy,” he said, pulling out the thumb drive Mozzie had managed to pass him before disappearing from the crime scene unseen. The conman really was telling the truth when he said he’d do everything in his power to get to the bottom of Neal’s disappearance. Including helping the FBI, a government institution he detested and distrusted, take down the man responsible.

“This is real proof, Diana. A digital paper trail proving Leech paid Jeramiah Park and Spencer Abrams a lot of money two days before they tried to kidnap Neal.”

This was, of course, assuming Mozzie hadn’t pulled a fast one on him somehow. Peter hadn’t had time to plug the device into a computer to make sure the information was actually on it. He had half a mind to ask if he could borrow one of the hospital’s computers, but he was already enough of a Persona Non Grata around here, what with his demand that they empty an entire psych ward to keep Jones safe, and then his rather rude requests to his doctor that she hurry up with his stitches already. A call to Elizabeth to let her know what happened and let her know it was all ok, had calmed him down a bit, but he was still on edge. Getting shot at could do that to a man.

“Add that to my testimony to your proof and I’d say we've got this one in the bag,” a familiar voice said from behind them and Peter spun around to find a wheelchair bound Jones being pushed through an opening in the curtain.

“I may or may not have called him to let him know we were here,” Diana admitted when Peter glanced back at her from over his shoulder.

He shook Jones’ hand, adding a hand to his agent’s shoulder to show just how happy he actually was to see him.

“They spring you already?”

“Just now,” Jones said, pointing to the annoyed looking orderly who was still behind him.

“Well take him from here, thanks,” Peter informed the man. The orderly didn’t seem to want to argue or stick around and left without comment.

Jones shot Peter an ‘I owe you’ look. 

“I take it you are starting to remember what happened on the bridge?” he asked once they were all alone again. Jones’ face was no longer wrapped in white. He had graduated to small squares of gauze taped to the skin and a few butterfly bandages. The bruising was as vivid and ugly as ever, but those would fade. He looked more like himself than he had in days.

“Diana’s been keeping me in the loop.” Peter wasn’t surprised. “I recognized Spencer and Park almost immediately. They were on that bridge with us, and they were not there to help me and Neal after the accident. They were there to kidnap him and to kill me, though I’m still not clear on why that didn’t happen.”

“Neal gave them quite a run for their money,” Peter said. Quite literally for Park. Rather unfortunately for Spencer. 

“So I heard. It was all over the news. They were calling him the Brooklyn Bridge Jumper. Caffrey’s gonna hate that when he finds out.”

“Of course he is,” Diana snickered from her gurney.

“I’ll tell whoever needs to hear it about what I saw, Boss,” Jones continued, determination jutting out his jaw. “Caffrey was not running.”

Jones didn’t have much to add about what Peter already knew happened on the bridge, but he was able to corroborate some of the facts he was only guessing at. His statement would also be key in clearing Neal’s name so that when they found him - and they would find him - and brought him home, there would be absolutely no strings attached. No room for another bureaucrat like Leech to strongarm their way in and try to say that Neal was somehow at fault for all this.

“So what’s our next move boss?” Diana asked.

“We finish up here, get the protection details sorted and then Diana, I need you back at the office working with the accountants on the info Mozzie gave us,” Peter answered.

“Protection detail,” Jones questioned, raising an eyebrow then wincing when it apparently pulled on his stitches.

“Jeremiah Park is still out there and I don’t trust Leech not to send him after us all again. It’s happening. Get used to it.”

“You think it was him outside Rosa’s?” Diana asked.

Peter nodded “And with me in the park, I’m sure of it.” 

They had given him some painkillers but the wound on his arm still throbbed for a moment as Peter thought back on his near miss. If Park had been any better of a shot, then he’d be dead right now. 

“What are you going to do?” The question again came from Diana.

“I gotta go see a judge about a warrant.”

* * *

  
It was funny the doors that started opening to Peter once word got out that he was looking into Robert Leech, or that he was talking to a federal judge about a warrant. There would be only one reason for that. He had enough evidence for one. It didn’t matter the judge had yet to sign off, Peter’s phone at work was lit up like a Christmas tree. Every person, every office that had stonewalled him in the beginning was practically breaking down his door with offers of help. They all wanted to know what he had on Leech, but Peter was playing it close to the vest and refusing to talk. Not even with promises of unending loyalty and favors for the rest of his days with the Bureau. Not even Hughes knew what Mozzie had dug up, and Peter was going to keep it that way for as long as possible.

Scrolling through a list of DC flights on his computer screen, Peter tried to find the one that would get him there the fastest. It was the most expensive one of course, but he’d pay it, even if the Bureau refused to reimburse him. He couldn’t risk Leech catching wind of what he was up to and making some counter move. Though that hope seemed to be fading fast with each call he got from people higher and higher up the FBI food chain. Word was spreading. It didn’t matter though. The evidence Mozzie had procured for them had been vetted and confirmed by Peter’s own forensic techs. All he was waiting on was the warrant. Even if he didn’t get it before he touched down in DC, there was still enough to confront Leech with and make him squirm. A cornered animal was a stupid animal and Peter couldn’t wait to put that man in a corner and watch him squirm. He just had to make sure to tread lightly. Leech might well be the only one who knew where Neal was being kept. 

His CI was still alive. Peter just knew it. If Neal were dead, then surely he would have felt it. The light in the world would have dimmed somehow. Leech had gone awfully big lengths to try and convince Peter that it had happened already, but it was all just games. Smoke and mirrors. The pieces on the chessboard being moved around again in a clever feint, but never into checkmate.

A knock sounded at the door, pulling Peter’s focus away from the flights.

“I know you're busy Boss,” Diana apologized, poking her head in, “but we just located one of the Marshals who drove Caffrey to the prison.”

“Really?” 

“Yeah. I just got the call from Hendrickson.”

Peter liked Hendrickson. He was a hard worker. A little on the quiet side, but a good agent all the same. And one with a knack for getting the truth out of art thieves and guilty investment bankers. A corruption case like this was right up his alley. 

“What did he say?”

“Not much. He got the guy to admit that his partner had bribed him with a case of beer to get lost while he dropped Caffrey off. Apparently his partner was sweet on some lady in Intake and he claims he figured that was the reason he wanted him gone.”

“And did he have an excuse for not returning any of our calls?” Peter asked.

“Claims he was on a bender with his brother upstate and didn’t get any of them until today. I guess his buddy made good on the bribe.”

“And the other one?”

“They’re still looking.”

“Ok, this should be enough for the prison to finally release it’s surveillance to us. I need you to go down there and give ‘em hell Diana. I want to know if they have any footage of Caffrey from the time he arrived at Rikers and when he disappeared.”

“I figured you were going to say that. I’ll see if I can get them to send it over electronically first.”

“If they won’t, maybe take Reed with you when you go? I want her to get a little more experience in the field.”

“I like her, too,” Diana said, apparently reading his mind, though Peter wasn’t sure he ever would have come out and said it quite as buntly. “She’s got a good head on her shoulders.”

“Exactly what I was thinking.”

“You got it boss,” Diana said before leaving.

It wasn’t much to go on, but at least Peter now knew Neal really had made it all the way to Rikers. He went back to his flight list, his mind distracted. There were still so many whys. Why had Leech done it? Why Neal? Why take him? His best bet was getting on a plane so he could find out from the man himself. Go directly to the source.

If only there weren’t so many interruptions. 

“Burke?” Hughes greeted, sticking his head in through Peter’s door much the same way Diana just had, proving the point.

Peter did not look away from his flights. He had one all picked out. A redeye that would get him to DC by morning. He’d have to forgo sleep, but he could always catch a few winks on the plane… “What’s up? I’m right in the middle of booking a flight to DC.”

“To confront Leech?” Hughes guessed, but Peter wasn’t about to answer that question. “Well, if that’s the case, then you can stop.”

Peter blinked up at his boss’ form darkening the doorway. Even if he was about to get the news he suspected - that the judge had been too scared of Leech to sign off on the warrant - he was ready with his rebuttal on how he could still make this work.

“Robert Leech didn’t show up at the office today. I got them to send a car over to his house, but he wasn’t there. He’s missing.”

Peter felt all the color drain from his face. “Do you think he’s running?” 

He was trying to decide which was worse, no warrant yet or a Robert Leech who was in the wind.

Hughes shrugged. “I think it might be a little too early to tell, but my gut is telling me otherwise.”

Peter thought about it. “I should still fly out there.”

“Would it do any good?” The director asked him.

“Depending on the answer I get from Judge Hayden, it might.”

“I suspected as much,” Hughes replied, massaging the bridge of his nose under his glasses. “Alright, book your flight. The DOJ isn’t going to be happy about this, but I frankly don’t care anymore.”

Hughes left him then to do just that, but a text on his phone interrupted before he could hit the button to book. He expected it to be from Elizabeth. She was angry with him for not coming straight home after his trip to the hospital, but he’d just been too anxious to find out what the forensic accountants had found on Mozzie’s drive. He’d spoken with her again briefly, brought her up to speed, and she’d agreed to get an overnight bag ready for his trip. Her only stipulation was that Peter must stop off at home to pick it up first. A stipulation he was all too happy to comply with. He picked up his phone from where it lay face down on his blotter, ready to read some sweet little note of encouragement from his wife. What he got was a photo from an anonymous number that nearly made him drop his phone.

Peter was up and out of his seat in a blink of an eye. “You two, get in here. I need you. Now.”

Diana and Reed both dropped what they were doing and rushed up the stairs. Something in his tone must have tipped them off that something was wrong.

“Peter, what is it?” Diana asked as soon as she saw his face.

“How long would it take our techs to figure out where a text was sent from?” he asked instead of answered.

“Our guys in the building? I don’t know, an hour maybe, depending where it came from,” Diana replied, but Peter could tell it was only a guess. “The guys downtown? Probably as long as it took you to hand over the phone.”

“There isn’t time to get this over to the lab.” Peter turned to Reed. “I need you to take my phone downstairs and have them get started on it right away. No stops.”

He handed the phone to his agent, the photo still up on the screen. Both Reed and Diana stared down at it with the same shock and disgust Peter had felt when he first opened the text.    
  
The picture was of Neal. Though no version of Neal Peter had ever seen before. His face was bloody and broken and he was lying in a heap on the floor, both eyes swollen shut and a pool of blood beneath his head. The simple text had come in after.

_ I would think very carefully about your next move. _

There was no doubt in Peter’s mind on who had sent him that text. It was Leech and he knew Peter was on to him. So he’d played the boldest move of them all. He’d cleared the board of all its pieces, putting Peter into checkmate in the process. It was now an impossible situation. Stand down and do nothing, and Neal would likely die in whatever place they were holding him. Or make a move despite Leech’s warning, and risk Neal being killed anyways.

Peter needed help. He needed to call in all the cavalry at once so they could run this case into the ground until it split wide open and revealed its secrets. He needed Mozzie and Diana, Reed and even Jones, Don and his wife. They were running out of time. Neal was running out of time and Peter was either going to find him and bring him home safe, or run himself into the ground tracking down every single person who’d had a hand in getting Neal into this mess. From Jeremiah Park, to all the FBI and DOJ bureaucrats who had stonewalled him from the beginning. To anyone who had accused Neal of being a murderer, a fleeing suspect, or an escaped inmate. He would make each and every one of them pay. And he would start with Robert Leech.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am no expert on the criminal justice system so forgive me if this warrant business is completely off base. Online sources of FBI procedure are really hard to come by for some reason...


	18. A Touch of Destiny

When Richards arrived with his tray the next day, Neal was still on the floor. He’d managed to get himself up to sitting, but there was no way he could stand. Or make it over to his little window. He just sat there, even when Richards called out to him though it. He just turned his head, glanced at the guard, and then went back to staring at the wall again.

“Shit,” he heard Richards mutter. The tray disappeared and his little window closed. Neal didn’t have much energy to focus on anything other than his own breathing. Otherwise he might have wondered where the guard went. 

He found out soon enough. 

The bolts on his door were drawn back and then Richards was in the room with him a moment later. He knelt on the floor next to Neal, setting the tray down. But Neal could do little more than stare at the man through his one working eye. He thought about trying to speak, to pull in enough breath to force words out of his raw and ragged throat, only he was fairly certain Smith had broken his jaw. Or at least bruised it very, very badly. He would not be eating for at least a week. His arm was also completely useless now and had come loose from its sling slightly. He hadn’t had the energy to tighten it again. 

Richards reached out to touch the side of Neal’s face, turning it this way and that, inspecting the damage. Neal let him, though under normal circumstances the touch would have had him flinching away, telling the guy to get his filthy hands off of him and go directly to hell. He might play it out in his mind, but there was no physical way of doing it. Neal was broken. Smith had seen to that. He’d torn Neal apart. He wouldn’t stay that way for long. Neal never did. He was not the kind of person to just roll over and die. But for now… well for now he was content to just stay in his little broken pile on the floor.

“Do you need the infirmary? We do have a doctor. Delores, she’s,” but Neal was already shaking his head. 

“Already met her, huh?” 

Neal gave the guard a knowing look before turning away again. He probably did need to see her. He was pretty sure Smith had cracked at least a few of his already tender ribs and it hurt to breathe. Or at least it did when he moved too much. Sitting here quietly on the floor of his cell, the hurts were less vocal. Even Peter’s hallucination had left. But Delores was Smith’s girl and likely wouldn’t help him even if he was taken to the prison infirmary, so...

A water bottle was placed in his hand. “Try and drink something. I’ll bring you a few more before the shift change. Hide them somewhere if you can. I’m off for the next few days but Andrews is filling in for me and Smith wouldn’t dare try anything with her around. But don’t expect much from her and watch what you say. Smith’s got something on her, too.”

So that explained it. Smith was dangling something over Richards’ head and it had bought his silence. He might still know more about Neal’s true identity than he was letting on, but at least Neal now knew the man wasn’t working with Smith willingly. Somehow that made things alright between them again in Neal’s eyes. He began flexing his jaw as Richards got up to leave, trying to warm it up enough that it might let him get a few words out.

“He’s planning… to get… you fired,” he somehow managed, though the pain of it made his eyes water. He was only able to open his mouth a tiny bit, add that to the state of his throat and it was a wonder he could speak at all. 

Richards paused.

“I heard them. Smith… Johnny… they’re planning something.” It was some distant name pulled from some murky memory he had of his first day here. A conversation Smith and Delores had in front of him.

“What?” Richard’s asked, turning around. “What are they planning?”

“Your cellphone… two minutes and I’ll tell you.” His jaw was in agony, each formed word a new lesson in torture.

“And why should I believe a word you say?”

“Because I’m not Dominic Sanchez, and you know it.” The small speech had taken everything he had left and Neal let his head fall back against the wall. He could only hope it was enough as he searched Richards’ face for some sign that it had been.

The guard’s face was blank as he gave his answer. “I think solitary is finally starting to get to you, Sanchez.”

And just like that, he was gone, taking with him all the hope Neal had managed to store up over the past few hours. The door was shut on it too, with a loud bang he felt in his teeth. He’d keep chipping away at Richards for as long as it took, but for now, it was over. Now he was staring down a few days with just Smith and some new woman he’d already been told would not be any help.

Richards' actions confused him. He was helping Neal, treating him more like a human than Smith, but he refused to let Neal make his call. Or just do it himself.

Neal started reciting Peter’s number in his head, just to make sure it was still there and safely locked away in his memory. Would Peter change it some day? Do something arbitrary like switch phone providers and get a new number along with his new phone? That would be the end of it all together. His last best chance. Neal shivered at the thought. No, he’d cross that bridge once he came to it.

Neal used his sleeve to wipe at his nose and resisted the urge to cry. It would be undignified, but who was around to see? Why shouldn’t he break down? In fact, why shouldn’t he get angry. Richards had left his food tray on the floor by Neal’s legs so he picked it up with his one good arm and threw it against the wall with all the force he could find inside. The pain was like fire licking up his body, but he welcomed it as he watched great gray globs of gelatinous mash slide down the walls as he coughed from the effort. Runny creamed corn and chicken that fell apart when you grabbed if off the tray, and not in a good way, went splattering everywhere. Neal was satisfied for approximately three seconds before realizing no one would be by to clean up the mess he’d made. There was no maid service in hell. In fact, Smith would probably be the next one to visit him, take one look at the mess he’d made, and make Neal clean it up with his toothbrush or something. The guy might even confiscate Neal’s makeshift sling and make him use his broken arm to do it. He couldn’t put it past the guy. It was exactly something that sadistic bastard might try to pull.

Neal glanced over at his bed, calculating the strength it might take to crawl over and pull himself up on to it. He decided it wasn’t worth it and spent his energy trying to retrieve his overturned tray from the floor. He supported his ribs with a hand, trying to keep at least some of the pain at bay as he bent to retrieve it, but his broken body wasn’t ready for that kind of movement quite yet. He fell back against the wall, breathing hard and trying to calm the pain. The panting only worked to aggravate his lungs and soon Neal was coughing so hard the world went away. It seemed to never end, and coupled with his broken ribs, one little part of his brain worried he might die.

Right then and there. That’s how Peter would find him, dead on the floor from oxygen deprivation, the remnants of his lunch tray still sliding down the wall. Neal fell onto his side and curled protectively around his ribs and arm as the coughing eased. He tried to think of other things, like how one might escape a maximum security solitary confinement block with nothing but a lunch tray, the materials from his fish kit, and the tiny bit of hope he was still clinging too. But the pain made it impossible to focus on anything but trying to breathe normally. 

But there had to be a way. Something he could do to get word to Peter. If these were normal circumstances and he had been healthy, Neal would have picked Smith or Richards’ pockets by now. But down here in solitary, the guards were careful and cautious. They didn’t carry anything with them except their weapons of mass destruction. Guns and fists and boots. What good were his skills against all that?

_ “Don’t you go giving up,” _ the Peter in his head commanded. His hallucinated form stayed away.

“Then get your ass over here and come find me,” Neal said to the empty room.

* * *

While Neal was having his imagined conversation with Peter in his cell, the real Peter sat in his office a state away, staring out his office window. He’d been staring out a lot of windows over the past several days as the search for Robert Leech and Jeremiah Park crept along at a snail's pace. Neither had been seen or heard from in days and Peter was beginning to wonder again if they would ever catch a break. Ever get the chance to interrogate either man and find out what they knew about Neal’s current whereabouts. If Peter could even get the information out of them.

In one desperate attempt at clarity, he’d even gone so far as to take the ferry over to Ellis Island and stand in the middle of the Hall of Records. It had been a favorite spot of his during his early days at the bureau. Something about the cavernous space and the intricate details of the ceiling calmed him down. It was a place of remembrance, like the crack in Rosa’s door. So many people had come through this place, full of fear and hope of the new life they were about to create for themselves. Possibility and adversity standing hand in hand on the docks and ready to greet them as they stepped off the boats and into a new country. Yesterday when he’d visited, he hadn’t gotten the clarity he was seeking, but he did get a chuckle or two thanks to a group of school children who had begun a game of tag in the middle of the room, much to the chagrin of their chaperones.

Not even Lady Liberty had helped as he stood in her shadow and peered up into her oxidized copper face. There were no pearls of wisdom to be found, though it was nice to have some quiet time to think. He was pretty much on the phone non stop these days, fielding calls from all those people who were tripping over themselves to help. Even the prison had come through and Peter had watched their surveillance footage himself on the plasma in the conference room. With Leech on the run and all but confessing his guilt by doing so, the time for discretion was over. Hughes has been brought in on everything. The entire office was working around the clock to sift through the small pieces of information that were slowly trickling in. It was their case now, DC be damned.

The footage from the prison intake area wasn’t any help beyond the fact that it confirmed Neal had never set foot in Rikers. Peter had a team at the prison now, interviewing inmates, employees and watching endless hours of grainy footage trying to find some hint of where Neal might have gone after the missing Marshal supposedly took him to Intake. That Marshal was missing. Like Leech, he had cleared out his bank accounts and disappeared.

The deeper Peter and his White Collar agents dug into Leech, the weirder things seemed to get. Up until leaving White Collar to join the DOJ, he was squeaky clean. The perfect model of an ambitious politician. But then something seemed to change around the time Neal started working with Peter. Leech began making decisions that didn’t fit with his personality. He was very wealthy for a government employee as well, and Peter still had Mozzie and his forensic accountants looking into that.

Peter just happened to be staring out his window and thinking about that money again when Diana popped her head into his office. “Boss, could you come into the conference room? I think we found something.”

The White Collar conference room was the place to be at the moment. Elizabeth had set up a table beneath the TV and stocked it with so much food, you were full just looking at it. Rosa’s pastries were in the mix, along with huge stainless steel carafes full of her coffee and tall stacks of styrofoam cups beside them for the taking. Some of his cavalry was assembled already. The only people missing were Elizabeth and Don. One was at home under heavy guard in case Park decided to make another move. And the other had informed him that he was just too busy doing real detective work to come help the FBI solve their case, but promised to be available by phone in case Peter needed any more help tracking things down. Or access to a resource he didn’t necessarily want the FBI to know about. And Mozzie of course. That man wouldn't be caught dead in a government building, and had reminded Peter of that fact quite vocally when he’d last spoken to him on the phone. A burner phone that Mozzie had insisted he use from now on.

“What have we got,” Peter asked as he followed Diana into the conference room.

“Mozzie found something pretty interesting,” Jones explained, typing something into his laptop so that his screen was now mirrored on the conference room TV. It looked to be a police report for stolen property. But it was also a fax of a fax of a fax and hardly legible.

“Can you tell what it says?” Peter asked, putting his nose so close to the plasma in an effort to read it, he nearly went cross eyed.

“It's a police report,” Jones said, stating the obvious. Peter would have turned around and given him a look had he not been so fixated on the screen. “It was filed by Leech years ago. Back when he was the director of White Collar. Someone stole several pieces of priceless art from his home. Family heirlooms, according to the report. But it’s the list of suspects that’s really interesting.”

Peter turned around. “What do you mean?”

“Caffrey’s on it.”

“What?” several voices asked at once. It was so reminiscent of Leech’s first day in the office that Peter nearly checked under the table to make sure the man wasn’t hiding beneath it. But they’d already swept for bugs. 

“How is that possible? I know Neal’s jobs back to back and I would have remembered a case with Leech.”

“Mozzie thinks he had it purged from the system,” Jones replied.

“Why?” Peter mused.

“Embarrassment maybe?” Diana offered up. “He was the director of White Collar at the time. Maybe the shame of having Caffrey steal from him was enough to set him off.”

“Agent Burke, what year were you assigned to Caffrey’s case? In the very beginning?” Reed asked, peering at Peter from over her laptop.

Peter rubbed at his chin as he thought back. “10 years ago maybe? I chased him for three, he was in prison for four, and we’ve been working together for about 3 now. Why?”

“Check out the date on the report.”

Jones did his best to zoom in on the top line of the document and all eyes turned to the screen. The date was from approximately ten years ago and something clicked in Peter’s brain.

“This is right around the time I was recruited to track Neal down,” he muttered half to himself before turning back around to the table full of agents. “Are you telling me that this is the case that started it all? The one that prompted them to bring me on and track Neal down?” It would make sense. A prominent FBI director with egg on his face bringing in the big guns to take care of a pesky problem.

“It’s means and motive, boss,” Diana said. “If Leech was embarrassed enough to alter official records and have the report of his theft purged, only for the man who stole from him to get a - what did you say he called it? A nice cushiony job with the FBI? - then maybe that’s why he decided to take matters into his own hands.”

“And get Neal sent back to prison,” Peter finished.

“But sending out a serial killer like Park to do it?” Jones pointed out. “Seems pretty extreme to me.”

“Not if Park was just along for the ride and Spencer was the one calling the shots. I mean, Detective Murphy did tell Agent Burke that the two had been teaming up on some non-serial killer type jobs lately,” Reed added.

Reed had a point, but Peter was still reeling from the fact that Leech might have been the catalyst for everything, and from the very beginning. But it was all circumstantial evidence at this point. And they were still no closer to finding Neal. What they needed was Leech himself. At least the judge would have no qualms about issuing a warrant now. This was too big to be ignored. Altering FBI records was a federal offense in and of itself. Even if Peter only nailed Leech on that, it would be enough.

“Do we have any leads on where Leech might be now?”

“None,” Jones answered. “He cleared out his bank accounts before we had the warrant to freeze them and has been in the wind ever since. The man’s a ghost.”

“And Neal?”

The wheelchair bound agent shook his head sadly. The photo that Leech had sent to Peter the other day had been combed over by FBI techs to no avail. The phone was a burner, purchased with cash by someone who was not Leech or Park. They’d wasted several man hours tracking it down, only to find it discarded in one of the Washington Square Park trash cans. It was a creative touch. Leech was letting him know he was the reason Peter and Mozzie had nearly been gunned down.

They knew from the photo that Neal was being held in some kind of cell. The techs might not have been able to figure out where the photo had come from, but they had analyzed the crap out of every pixel of it. They knew the phone that sent the picture was not the same phone that took it. The meta data had been erased thoroughly which led them to believe Leech had some technical prowess, despite the little notebook he used in lieu of a laptop. Or at least had smart people working for him. They knew the kind of phone that took the picture, when it was manufactured, but nothing of any value. The orange jumpsuit Neal was wearing had suggested some kind of prison perhaps, but how many of those were scattered across the country? Even so, Peter already had everyone redoubling their efforts at Rikers trying to find out how many transports had left that day. Unfortunately, there were hundreds. 

Rikers Island was the largest prison system in the country and inmates were not housed there long term. It wasn’t a jail in the truest sense of the word, more like a holding facility for prisoners who were being held over for trial or in federal custody for whatever reason. There were transport vans and busses departing for all corners of the country daily, hourly even. If Neal had been on one of those, then it was going to be a nightmare trying to find him.

But they would. Leech had warned him to consider his next move wisely. Well Peter was. He was doing everything he could to lay low, stay off the FBI mainframe and keep his movements as quiet as possible. The only reason they were in the conference room and not at Rosa’s was because of all the precautions Peter had taken to secure the building. No one was allowed in or out unless they had a badge and their retinal scans were in the system. Hughes was amused by that aspect of Peter’s plan but let him get away with installing the technology because it was, as Huges had put it,  _ high time they got with the times _ .

In addition to all that, the entire office had been swept for bugs and everyone was on new laptops connected to a secure server with FBI level encryption. Unless Leech had Stephen Hawking working for him, no one was getting through. There had been moments when Peter was afraid Hughes might tell him it was all too much and to shut it down, but the order was never given. Hughes was as invested in finding Neal and bringing Leech down as the rest of them at this point and was willing to give Peter free reign. It was a tremendous drain on FBI resources and many of their other cases had been put on the back burner, but other agents had been brought on to pick up the slack. Peter was free to focus all his attention on Neal’s case. Not even DC was putting up a fuss. Peter was pretty sure they were beginning to realize what had been done to Caffrey, what Leech’s power and influence had let him get away with, and how none of this was going to look good for any of them when it was all over.

And it had to be over. Soon. Judging by Neal’s state in that photo, he was running out of time.

“Alright. We know Neal’s alive. Leech was kind enough to send us that proof of life photo even if he didn’t realize it,” Peter continued. “He also might have inadvertently given us a big clue about Neal’s whereabouts with the jumpsuit he was wearing.”

“I checked with the techs,” Reed said. “The jumpsuit is standard issue and made by the same company that distributes to the entire midwest. It looks to be a dead end.”

“But it’s enough to tell us he’s likely in prison somewhere,” Jones reminded them.

“If he’s in a prison,” Peter mused, “then that means he’s in the system somewhere. His name hasn’t come up on any lists, so they’re likely holding him under an assumed name. Don’t most prisons fingerprint their inmates during the intake process?”

“Already tried that boss,” came Diana’s reply. “If they fingerprinted him, they did not make it into the databases.”

“Another dead end,” Jones grumbled, voicing what they were all thinking.

“Then maybe I can help with that.”

As was the habit with people during this investigation, a new arrival pushed in through the conference room doors and drew the attention of everyone in the room. Peter stopped his pacing to turn around as he came face to face with an old friend.

“Cruz?” he all but stammered, astonished beyond measure at the sight of his former agent standing there just inside the door.

Jones was closest to her and tried to jump out of his seat to greet her before remembering his leg was broken and he was stuck in a wheelchair. His crutches were out of reach, leaning against the wall on the other side of the room where Diana had stashed them out of the way. People had been tripping over them all morning.

“Laruen,” Jones greeted her, rolling away from the table.

“Hey there, Gimpy,” she replied with a wink.

Besides the pixie cut Lauren Cruz now sported, Peter’s former agent looked exactly like he remembered. Her eyes were still large and curious with a smile that lit up the room. She brought with her an energy that had been missing from the conference room for days. 

“Cruz, what are you doing here?” Peter asked, taking a stack of files the woman was holding and setting them on the table.

“I’m here to help of course,” Lauren said, returning the thousand watt smile Peter gave her. “After I got your call, I did some digging and was able to pull up a few things on Leech. I figured I would bring them by myself since I was in town on business.”

Lauren spent the next few minutes regaling them with her exploits in DC and getting introduced to Reed. Lauren had transferred out of White Collar long before their newest agent had come on board. Peter listened as she talked, his pride in her increasing exponentially as she told them all of her climb up the ladder. She had gotten there all on her own. Peter had just given her a little nudge in the early days, but that didn’t stop him from feeling like some proud father listening to his kid’s accomplishments. Maybe that was condescending, but it’s how he felt.

“I also wanted to let you know the scuttlebutt I’ve been hearing around Capitol Hill,” Lauren finished as she pulled her coat off and draped it over the back of one of the conference room chairs. She took a seat, they all did actually, and continued her tale as Jones pulled the files she’d brought in closer and started distributing them amongst the gathered agents. They’d get through them faster that way. Peter worried briefly about Jones working so soon after his concussion and regaining his memories, but there was no talking the man out of coming in to help. A bottle of aspirin sat on the table beside his laptop and Peter was keeping a close eye on him. Even so, he was seriously considering making his agent go home. On the other hand, he’d only been there for a few hours and Peter didn’t have the heart to do it.

“Leech’s power is slipping. Everyone is talking about the warrant you tried to get from Judge Hayden,” Lauren said.

“No wonder he ran,” Diana piped in.

“With my contacts at Justice, I was able to talk to some people who knew him personally. I even tracked down his sister.”

“Was she any help?” Peter asked, recalling his own attempts at finding out more about Leech’s sister when he’d learned of her, but uncovering little. Leech was very good at covering his tracks. He was surprised Mozzie had been able to find the money trail at all, and it explained why nothing much had been found since.

“Not really,” Lauren answered, “but I did find out that Leech has a nephew. I think his name is Franklin something. It’s in one of the files.”

“Franklin Smith,” Reed provided. “Says here he’s…” but the agent stopped talking suddenly. She squinted down at the page in her hands as if trying to decide if she’d read it correctly. 

“A corrections officer, right?” Lauren provided before glancing around the room at the astonished faces staring at her, Peter’s included. “Was it something I said?”

But Peter was too busy barking orders again as the room exploded in a burst of kinetic activity.

“I want details on Smith, now,” he all but snapped. He would apologize for the rudeness later. Lauren sat in her chair watching everything unfold with a bewildered look on her face.

“Franklin Smith, 41, a corrections officer at the Bucks County Correctional Facility in Pennsylvania. Been working there for about 6 years.”

“That’s it, that’s got to be it,” Peter said with a rush of emotion. Fear, anxiety, elation, relief all mashing themselves together in the pit of his stomach. Had Elizabeth been in the room right then, he would have kissed her.

“How far away is the Bucks County facility?”

It was Reed who found the answer first. “About an hour and forty if there’s no traffic.”

And there would be traffic, but finally they had the time to spare. There was no way Leech would know what they’d found.

“Laruren, we think Neal might be being held in some kind of prison. I got a proof of life photo of him the other day. The fact that Leech’s nephew is a corrections officer at a prison nearby means you likely just blew this case wide open,” Peter explained, talking fast. “And found Neal.”

Lauren’s eyes went wide. “Seriously?”

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” Peter began, addressing the room. “Diana, I want you to come with me to Pennsylvania. I’ll call Murphy on the way and see if he can pull a few strings with local law enforcement and have them coordinate a visit to the prison with us. Jones and Reed, please work on securing a warrant for the search while Diana and I are on the road. Don’t use Hayden. Judging by how quickly news of my last warrant request spread, I don’t trust her not to tell someone. Do it as quietly as possible.”

He looked around the room, making sure every pair of eyes was still fixated on him. “I cannot even begin to tell you the necessity for secrecy here. No one can know what we’re up to except the people in this room and the judge who issues the warrant. Caffrey’s life may very well depend on how we handle this next part.” Every head around the table nodded. “I don’t want to give Smith or Leech even the slightest heads up.”

When Peter was certain the severity of the situation had sunk in, he turned to Lauren.

“I don’t know if you have time to stick around, but you’re welcome to stay and see this thing through.”

“Of course I’ll stay,” She answered. “I want to see Leech go down. And who knows, maybe a rep from Justice will help our judge stay impartial.”

Peter put his hand over Lauren’s and squeezed. “It’s really good to see you.”

Diana had arrived at his side with his coat by then. Peter got up out of his chair and slipped into it. “When all this is over, it’s drinks on me.”

“You got it, Boss,” his former agent replied. It was so like the old times, Peter nearly hugged her.

“You want to tell Hughes?” Diana asked on their way out of the office.

“I’ll call from the road and fill him in.” He wasn’t interested in wasting any more time. They were out in the vestibule already anyway and waiting for the elevator. Peter had intel now, actual actionable intel, for the first time in almost a week. He’d charter a private jet to Pensylvannia if he thought it would get him there any faster. Telling Hughes now only ran the risk of slowing them down.

The parking garage was as cold as ever when Peter and Diana exited the elevators. They headed over to Peter’s car and he checked the back first before climbing in. Mozzie wasn’t there, but Peter wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took some creative license with Peter's recruitment into White Collar and onto Neal's case. In the 2x11 Forging Bonds, Peter is already working at WC and stumbles onto a file of Neal's for Bond Forgery. With a little squinting and head turning, it could be argued this story is entirely plausible, but we'll call it slightly AU.


	19. Shivved

Richards had been right. While the guard did end up being gone for the next few days, Smith behaved himself. Andrews was a no nonsense woman who barely said two words to him and never came into his cell. He only caught glimpses of her when he happened to open his eyes at the same time she was dropping off his tray. Her figure was different from Smith’s and he noticed it right away. By then he’d migrated from the floor to his bed. The swelling had gone down from his face a bit as well, and he could see out of both eyes again, though one didn’t work quite as well as the other at the moment. He hadn’t moved much from there, his lungs and body not letting him. He was amazed he’d even been able to pull himself up onto the bed in his state.

Congestion had all but stolen his capacity to breathe and he spent most of his time just reminding his lungs to keep working. It was like working a long con, and he kept finding himself having to come up with clever ways to talk them into doing what he wanted. Andrews’ arrival meant time for Neal to try and pull the broken pieces of himself together. It was slow work, but he was managing.

On the night before Richards was due back (Neal was back to regular meal trays and therefore some sense of time), Smith visited his cell.

“On your feet, maggot,” the man said, tossing Neal’s shoes at his chest. His sling was off and he was able to turn in time to avoid the shoes striking his bad arm. Smith didn’t seem to realize or care and stood there with his arms crossed while Neal slipped on his shoes and stood up.

“Turn around. Face the wall. Hands on the rivets.” Neal did as he was told, though he knew what was coming next. Sure enough, Smith manhandled his wrists into a pair of cuffs and the pain was enough to make Neal cry out. He was yanked away from the wall by his bad arm and forced out into the hall. The guard station at the end was empty. Shift change. Neal was on his own.

“Where are we going,” he ground out around the nearly unbearable pain. It was so intense, Neal was worried he might pass out. At least his legs were free.

“The warden decided it was high time you had some yard time.”

Neal was pushed up the stairs and down the empty corridors of the prison. Guards at their checkpoints greeted Smith with varying degrees of emotion ranging from the disgusted to the semi-friendly. The farther they went, the more the prison opened up until Neal could spy barred windows, the darkness outside them indicating night. When they came to a bolted door, Smith fished a set of keys out of his pocket and unlocked it. Neal was immediately hit with a blast of winter wind that made him cough. Still healing cuts began to sting and the bones in his arm started to ache even more, if that was possible.

“Enjoy your yard time.”

Smished pushed him forward so violently, Neal lost his footing and fell rather than walked into the yard. The door was slammed shut behind him and suddenly he found himself alone in an open courtyard that appeared to be roofed by chain link fencing. Towers rose up at the east and west corners, their turrets lit from within and patrolled by officers with shotguns. Warning bells went off in Neal’s head like tornado sirens as he loosened an object he’d been hiding in one of the sleeves of his jumpsuit for days. It was a paperclip. One of the small ones. Small enough for a pissed off Marshal to miss as it slid into his pocket. Slim enough tuck up against his gums while Brutus conducted his cavity search and was too distracted by Smith to check properly. The one no one had discovered because Smith had rushed him through Intake and he was so very good at hiding things. He used that small little paperclip now to uncuff himself. It was tortuous work with his broken arm, but Neal had a feeling that he wasn’t going to be by himself in this yard for much longer. Being cuffed and helpless was not an option. 

He shrank into one shadowed corner of the yard where the pools of light the overhead lamps threw did not reach and tried to figure out if he was alone or not.

His eyes played tricks on him, naturally, and matrixed all sorts of images out of the places the light did not reach. One solitary basketball hoop stood sentry over the yard. The tables and bleachers for sitting seemed like animals stalking him in the night, but there didn’t appear to be anyone lurking in the shadows. The temperature had to be well below freezing now and pretty soon Neal was shivering. Perhaps that was Smith’s endgame. To leave him out here to freeze to death. How long would they have to wait to bury him in the graveyard behind the prison? Spring when the ground thawed? It would be nice to be buried in the spring.

But Smith’s endgame was not to have Neal freeze to death in one corner of the yard. It was much more poetic than that. He’d been standing there shivering for about five minutes before the door that he’d been shoved through opened again. Light poured out into the yard and painted a yellow rectangle on the frozen ground. A figure appeared, darkening the doorway, and then stepped through. Smith’s voice echoed across the yard.

“He’s all yours, Forsythe. Compliments of Leech.”

Neal’s heart sputtered in his chest as the door slammed shut again and he suddenly found himself alone with the one man he’d been hoping to never see again. A man he betrayed. A man who looked a lot bigger and much more menacing than Neal remembered. He inched himself further back into the shadows, cursing when the fencing moved as well and there was a tinkling of metal. Forsythe was standing in a pool of light and Neal did not miss it when the art thief turned his head in the direction of the sound. 

_ Shit. _

Forsythe fished something long and slender out of his pocket and stalked forward. Neal tried to figure out what it was, but couldn’t see it properly. Not that he really needed to. He could guess what it was. What else would another inmate have lying around that he could use to murder another prisoner? 

Neal was about to get shivved in prison, and he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to laugh or cry about it.

Neal slunk along the fence, keeping himself in the shadows as Forsythe reached his corner to find it empty. The overhead lights were harsh and helping to conceal him from his old friend. Forsythe squinted out into the night, trying to decide which way Neal had gone.

“I know you’re out there, Caffrey,” he said.

Neal knew better than to answer.

“I got a message from Jimmy. Remember him?” Forsythe was turning around in a circle now. “You broke my kid brother’s heart. He looked up to you, man. And now he’s gonna rot in prison for what you did.  _ I _ am going to rot in prison for what you did. So it”s time to pay the piper.”

Forsythe was looking in the opposite direction of where Neal was headed, but it didn’t matter. He felt the need to cough start building in his chest. The cold air was torture on his lungs. Nothing he did now was going to stop it, though he tried, and to the point that his eyes started watering and the moisture slid down his face like tears. He started, and that was all Forsythe needed to zero in on his exact location. 

The sound of pounding feet reached his ears and Neal instinctively took off in the other direction. But days and days of endless beatings, sporadic trays of disgusting prison food and his own body were working against him. 

Forsythe body slammed into the back of him, sending them both skittering across the gravel. The art thief was able to recover almost instantly, but Neal had his arm to worry about, and cried out into the night as Forsythe landed on it. He was flipped over onto his back where Forsythe repaid him for the scream with his fists. They rained down on Neal, nearly knocking him senseless. This momentary stunned silence was all Forstyhe needed to throw a leg over Neal and straddle him. In some burst of energy from some hidden bit of adrenaline still left in him, Neal flashed out his good arm and caught Forstyhes descending wrist with a hand. The shiv the man now held glinted in the lamplight, long and sharp, promising Neal an agonizing death. How would it feel going in, he wondered.

Immeasurable moments passed as Neal and Forsythe struggled over the shiv, Forsythe trying to push it down, Neal trying to stop it’s descent with one trembling arm. But the shiv kept coming, the sharp end hovering just above his heart, in slow motion like a scene from the movies. Neal wasn’t sure where the strength came from, maybe that same hidden place that kept telling him Peter might show up any moment now and save him, but he knew it wouldn’t last long. 

When Forsythe added his other hand to the mix, he knew it was over.

In one last desperate attempt to protect himself, he forced Forsythe’s hand to the side and the shiv embedded itself into his shoulder just under his clavicle. Forsythe tried to pull it out and use it again, but Neal somehow beat him to it. He wrapped his hands around the handle, fully intending to pull it out of his own body and stab back into Forsythe’s face if that’s what it would take. Neal’s old friend seemed to understand that this was his intention as well and rolled off of him in a hurry. Forsythe made it as far as the door before the sound of a gunshot split the chilly night air. 

The blood coated shiv slipped from Neal’s grip, falling to the ground at the exact same time as Kurt Forsythe’s lifeless body. There was a bullet hole in the back of his head. Neal could only imagine what his face looked like now. No more shifty eyes or sly smile. Kurt Forsythe was dead.

Snowflakes had begun swirling down from the night sky. Neal turned his face to stare up at them as they lit ever so gently on his face. They landed on his nose and cheeks, as soft and as sweet as kisses. It was more kindness than anyone had shown him in days and he felt his eyes fill at the beauty of it. He’d been at the Bucks County Correctional Facility for seven days, if his calculations were correct, and he hadn’t let himself cry over something other than pain that whole time. Not even once. Not after any of the beatings when Smith left him bleeding and battered on the floor of his cell, or the worst of the nights when his fever burned and his body shook with so much pain hallucinations of Peter appeared to try and comfort him. Not even when Richards walked out of his cell two days ago and took with him what really had ended up being Neal’s last chance at reaching Peter. He hadn’t shed a single  _ real _ tear through any of it. But he did now. And it wasn’t even over something sad. He wept for how beautiful the snowfall looked under the lamps of the prison yard. If he made it to heaven, he was going to tell Kate all about this moment.

_ “Medical Team to Sector Seven. Medical Team to Sector Seven.” _

Someone a few stories up had decorated a window with Christmas lights. Neal noticed them as people and voices began filling the yard. He watched them blink as a figure fell to their knees beside him and put pressure on his wound. He never used to care for the blinking ones. His mother had always found them gaudy and Neal had decided at a very young age that he did too. But now as he watched them dance merrily, he could kind of see the appeal. They made pretty shapes when his eyes finally lost focus and he realized he was going into shock. And he knew he would dream of them once the world went away and he was finally free of this living hell. 

Neal let go and let the dreams take him. He dreamt of Peter, the real Peter, storming the gates of the prison like the knight in shining armor Neal had imagined, his steed decked out in those blinking lights. Elizabeth was there, too. And Mozzie and Alex. Kate even, though he knew she was dead. They were nice dreams, good dreams, and he didn’t want to leave them, not even when people started lifting him up onto a gurney and a calloused hand slapped him hard across the face.


	20. Must Go Faster

Peter’s trip from New York to Pennsylvania gave a whole new meaning to the word  _ anxious _ . He’d never really considered the idea of anxiety all that closely. It was just a word that showed up in reports and was mentioned a time or two by the various therapists he’d see over the years. He tried to remember the advice he’d been given to try and combat it, but was coming up short. It wasn’t to incessantly tap his fingers on the armrest of the passenger seat, as Diana had so graciously and patiently pointed out to him on several occasions now. It wasn’t to obsessively check his phone every 30 seconds either. There didn’t appear to be any relief for the horrible mess his guts had become as the mile markers on the highway slowly unveiled their progress. So he tried to focus on other things instead. He’d let Diana drive, something he was regretting now. At least then he would have had the road to focus on, not that he imagined it would be any better than what he was experiencing now. Besides, Diana had to drive. Peter had too many phone calls to make.

His one to Elizabeth had been easy. In that warm, supportive way of hers she had let him know she wasn’t mad about the fact that he had just left town without even stopping home first. His call to Hughes’ went easy, too. His boss understood and hinted that Jones had already been by to fill him in on what was going on. Now he was just checking his phone every few seconds waiting on the call about their warrant. Federal warrants were tricky business and while he wasn’t willing to admit it outloud, Peter was nervous. Especially after his last warrant was denied. Well not denied so much as delayed. He had it now. It was just not the one he needed.

Peter’s phone buzzed in his hand and startled him so badly, even Diana jumped.

“Sorry,” he muttered before answering.

“We got it.” Jones said. Peter glanced at the dashboard clock. It had taken little less than an hour. Damn he had trained his agents well.

“Did you have any trouble?”

“Oh no. Especially not with Lauren and the fact this is now a kidnapping case over state lines. The judge hardly asked any questions.”

“Make sure to tell her I said thanks,” Peter said. “Diana and I are about 45 minutes out from the county sheriff's office. I’ll call you again from there.”

“Sounds good,” Jones agreed. “Tell Diana I told her to drive safe.”

Peter chuckled as he ended the call.

“Good news I take it?” Diana asked from the driver’s seat.

“The judge came through. We got our warrant.”

Diana hit the steering wheel with her palm. “Excellent! It’s about time we got a damn break in this case.”

Peter couldn’t have agreed more. Nothing had been easy about this case so far. Not from the moment Leech swooped into the office like a vulture with his little cronies all simpering in his wake. He would track every single one of them down, use what they knew about Leech against the man, and then make it his personal mission to see that none of them ever worked for the federal government again. 

Alright, maybe that was taking it a bit too far. Peter wasn’t quite so heartless as that. Besides, most of them had probably been ordered to help Leech on his witch hunt. He wouldn’t get them fired. He would get them all raises if they agreed to share what they knew. Who cared if it looked bad.

“Jones said to drive safe,” Peter said, forcing the thoughts away.

“I always drive save,” Diana said, sounding offended.

“That's not true and we both know it. But I think it had more to do with the last time he was behind the wheel.”

“Oh,” Diana said. “I get it. The bridge. Bad accident. Serious concussion. Check.”

“All the same, watch your speed.” 

Diana’s gesture to Peter from behind the wheel was far from professional, but she went back to driving and Peter went back to staring out his window and trying not to tap his fingernails against the arm rest. He was still waiting on a call from Don on whether or not Peter and Diana would have Buck’s County sheriff back up when they stormed the prison. If not, then there was an FBI field office a few hours out and they had already sent a SWAT team out towards the prison. The sheriff’s office was on the smaller side and Peter wasn’t sure how many people they were going to have to arrest. Or how much of a fight those people would put up when they tried. The more law enforcement officers Peter had with him to search that prison, the better.

“We’re here,” Diana announced a little while later. She’d gotten them there a lot faster than Peter had expected. Though it had been enough time for Don to call and tell him everything had been arranged. They were to meet the sheriff himself, a man named Jude Martin.

“Yes my parents were Beatles fans and yes I was named after the song,” the younger than expected man said when he introduced himself. He met them outside his office where the parking lot was full of cruisers with their lights flashing. “I called in the calvary as soon as your detective called,” he explained as he shook hands with each of them and led them in. There were more officers milling about inside.

“We really appreciate this, Sheriff,” Peter said once the three of them were seated and situated in the man’s private office.

“We’re always happy to give the feds a hand,” Martin replied. Peter highly doubted that, but appreciated the man’s efforts at civility.

He went on. “We have reason to believe that a man named Neal Caffrey is being held at the correctional facility against his will.”

“Doesn’t everyone over there think they’re being held against their will?” Martin joked, his attempt at humor falling flat, even though Diana still offered him a weak smile to keep things light and friendly.

“Caffrey was wrongfully accused of murder and then illegally transfered between prisons and over state lines. We have a federal warrant and permission to search the prison for him. I understand you guys don’t have SWAT, so our local branch is sending a team over. They should be here within the hour.” Peter finished, checking his watch.

“Is there anything we should know before heading in?” Martin queried. Peter explained the situation with Smith, but only what was necessary to get the job done. He’d been serious with the whole ‘not taking any more chances’ thing.

“All the evidence points to Caffrey being held at that facility. We just don’t know what condition he’s in or if Smith is going to put up a fight. He’s a corrections officer with a long list of infractions. I wouldn’t make the mistake of underestimating him considering he’s been hiding an injured man in the prison for nearly a week."

* * *

Two hours later, Peter and Diana were once more in the car. Peter drove this time, white knuckling the steering wheel the entire time as the caravan they were heading made its way towards the prison. There was Peter’s car in the lead, all the sheriff’s men behind him with lights flashing and sirens roaring, SWAT not far behind, and then an ambulance taking up the rear. With any luck, this whole thing would be over in a matter of hours. Peter tried not to picture it going so easily because raids like this rarely did, but the images of the caravan bursting through the doors and plucking Neal from the jaws of death kept playing out in his head regardless. In reality, Peter knew it would be a struggle just getting through the door. Then they would have to find the warden. If he wasn’t around, then they’d have to wait while one of the sheriff's men left to collect him. The warden would want to read the warrant and then argue over the fact that he couldn’t possibly be playing host to a kidnapped FBI consultant. Then there would be the search of the actual prison. That would go slow as well because there would be checkpoints to go through and doors to be unlocked. Peter had an impressive number of people with him to help, but he still knew this wasn’t going to be the dazzling rescue scene he was hoping for.

Even so, as the bright lights of the prison became visible off in the distance, Peter let himself get excited. This had been the worst week of his life, filled with nightmares that probably wouldn't even hold a candle to the ones Neal was going through, but still. He’d done it. He’d found Neal. He didn’t care that there was still a chance he’d been moved already, or wasn’t even at this prison in the first place. He’d convinced himself that this was the end and that he would be bringing Neal home, one way or another. In whatever condition he found him in. He owed Neal that much at least, for not stopping Leech, for not finding the truth out before now. For all the things they’d left unsaid and the work they still had left to do. This was that breathless moment right before Neal jumped off the bridge all over again. Only this time, Peter would be there to catch him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, apologizes for my crime drama tv show level knowledge of warrants.


	21. You Tell Him

_ “Neal? Can you hear me?” _

He cracked his eyes open. Just a little bit at first.

_ “Hey that’s right. Just take it slow.” _

They drooped closed. He tried again.

_ “Come back to us Neal.” _

“Peter?”

The name came so easily. No more razor blades. No more gravel trucks. 

“Is it over?”

_ “I don’t think so. Not yet.” _

He came to in a cell, but not the cell he was expecting. He also woke up alone, but warm. Not the bad warm of fever, though that was there too. It was a warm bed kind of warm. Cup of coffee on the veranda on a summer morning with June, warm. Pillows and blankets and…

“What in the hell is he still doing here?”

“Would you be quiet? You’re gonna wake him up!” an unfamiliar voice hissed.

“Wake him up? He shouldn’t even be here, Mallory! Why isn’t he on the way to the hospital?”

Neal tried the eye thing again, managing little more than a crack. He shifted on the bed and nearly cried out. A pain he wasn’t expecting erruputed in his arm, flashing up and over into his chest, stealing his breath and making him cough pitifully. 

It all came rushing back then, Smith, the yard, Forsythe, getting stabbed. Neal glanced over at his bad arm - and now bad shoulder - and took in the sight of the bandages. His entire upper torso had been wrapped in them, probably to stabilize the shoulder and keep him from injuring it further. There was blood on the bandages.

“You know the rules, Benny. No ambulance until your boss and Dr. M get here.”

“You do realize he just got stabbed, right?”

The conversation going on outside in the hall did not stop as Neal began to stir. Not even as he opened his eyes all the way and started to cough. He was still in a cell of sorts, but it was one of the cells he’d observed in the infirmary the first day he’d arrived at the prison. When Smith shoved him through and convinced Delores he didn’t need an exam. If you squinted, you could almost imagine it were a regular hospital room, except for the bullet proof glass on the door windows. He could see two people talking outside his room though those windows. Richards, and the one he’d just called Mallory. She appeared to be a nurse.

“Relax,” Mallory was telling Richards. “It was just the shoulder and I’ve stopped the bleeding. He’ll be fine until Dr. M. gets here.” Neal could only assume she meant Dr. Delores, and if that was the case, he figured he was more likely to be sent back to his cell then to the hospital. How fun was that going to be? Trying to heal from a shiv in the shoulder back down in solitary. It would be impossible, that’s what it would be. If he didn’t die from infection then he’d die at the hands of Smith and Forsythe. With no proper medical care, there was a chance his arm would never work properly again. And with only one arm…

“Besides, Smithy said…” Mallory continued, but Richards stopped her.

“I don’t give a rat’s ass what your brother said, Mal. That bastard is the reason Sanchez is in here in the first place.” 

Great, just what Neal needed, yet another person in this prison loyal to Smith. 

Was this even a prison? Or just some asylum where the prisoners had taken over and were all posing as guards. If it weren’t for Richards, Neal might wonder if he was the only sane person left in the building. That would account for the pain meds they were obviously not giving him. His shoulder felt like it was on fire. Every time he drew in a breath, which was laborious and dangerous all on its own thanks to his congested lungs and constant need to cough, it was agony. Not even the oxygen flowing through the mask covering the lower half of his face was helping. Every time his thoughts even strayed in the direction of his wound it gave a god awful throb and whited out the world enough for him to lose track of the conversation going on outside.

Neal closed his eyes and tried to breathe through the pain. Tried to focus on just pulling air in and pushing it back out. A good rhythm, a calming rhythm, like the one that smartwatch the agents in the office had given him for Christmas last year always had taught him. The watch he hated but still wore around the office sometimes just to make them happy. Christmas had come and gone long before Robert Leech had waltzed into his life. Even so, Neal couldn’t help but wonder if he would ever live to see another one. Or if this winter would ever end.

“You know I don’t make the rules, Ben. The only person who can authorize us to call an ambulance for an injured inmate is Dr. MacKenzie. Dierdra didn’t show up for her shift today and screwed me over. I’m here alone and if I break protocol, she’ll have me fired. And you know what a vindictive bitch Delores can be.”

“And if he dies?” Richards pointed out angrily. “Look at him Mallory!”

Both the guard and the nurse glanced over at him. But either they thought he was still asleep or just didn’t care that he was awake and listening. Either way, he was ignored as their rather heated conversation continued.

“Would you please calm down?” Mallory pleaded. She was a pretty young woman in burgundy scrubs with dark hair and who bore little resemblance to her brother. In fact, had Neal passed the two of them on the street, he never would have guessed they were siblings. “He’s not going to die. I’m pumping him full of fluids and the doc will be here any minute. Just hold your water.”

“What about the other things you told me about? His fever and his low… oxygen or whatever?”

Neal watched Mallory throw up her hands.

“This is a prison infirmary, Benny. We barely have the staff or the supplies available to treat a paper cut. I’m doing the best that I can for him until everyone gets here.”

Mallory’s best appeared to be the wrapped shoulder that was still bleeding despite her earlier assertion to Richards, and an IV that had been installed into the back of his one good hand. Neal lifted it off the bed, careful to keep the other half of his torso steady to avoid jostling his shoulder again and setting the sparks off behind his eyes. It was connected to a bag of saline dangling from what looked to be an old wire coat hanger that had been stretched out and hooked over the curtain rod above the room’s only window. There was also an ancient looking piece of equipment beside his bed that appeared to be some kind of machine to record his vitals. A heart monitor that would have been at home on the set of a 1950s medical drama rounded out the rest of the dreary scene. It sat on a table beside his bed, quiet and dark. He wasn’t hooked up to it.

“If you don’t have the supplies,” Richards was saying, “then call the damn ambulance like I told you to.”

“Not until the doc gets here, and that’s final Benjamin.” Neal half expected Mallory to stomp her foot.

“That woman doesn’t know what the fuck she’s doing. None of you people around here do. You’re just a bunch of pushovers and second rate hacks.”

Mallory seemed offended and took a step back as though she’d just been slapped.

“I didn’t mean you, Mal,” Richards apologized immediately, his face softening as he closed the gap between them again. “You know how I can get sometimes.” 

The guard reached up to touch the side of the Mallory’s face then seemed to think better of it. Neal wondered if this was maybe the dirt Smith had on Richards, considering the guard seemed to fixate on the tanline of his ring finger before dropping the hand altogether. “It’s just that woman. Delores. You know she lost her license in three states before Smith got her the job here, right?”

“I know that, Benny. Just like I know how you know about my situation. And how I cannot afford to make that woman mad at me and lose my job.” Mallory pleaded before sighing dramatically. “Look, I’m not saying that he  _ shouldn't _ go to the hospital. He really should. But Dr. MacKenzie was very specific on the phone. I’m not to make any calls until she gets here, examines him and then signs off on the ambulance.”

“That guy’s been down in solitary for a week telling everyone and anyone who’ll listen that he’s not Dominic Sanchez and no one batted an eye. Now he needs medical attention and suddenly everyone’s insisting we go by the book? It’s not right Mallory. None of it is.”

Had Neal been hooked up to the heart monitor beside his bed, it might have registered the uptick in his heartbeat as he listened to Richards speak. The man was proving right then and there that he was no Leech stooge and that he was at least entertaining the idea that Neal could be telling the truth. Perhaps getting stabbed was the best thing that could have happened to him. Even if he still wasn’t able to convince Richards or Mallory to call the FBI at least there would be the doctors and nurses at the hospital. How many of those had he charmed over the years? They’d see him as an inmate at first, and distrust him completely, but he knew how to prolong a hospital stay long enough to buy himself enough time to get his hands on a phone.

If Dr. Delores let him, that was. 

If he wasn’t sent back to his cell. 

If only his lungs were working properly and something wasn’t broken in his throat. 

Despite his dream of Peter, Neal knew it was still all razor blades and gravel trucks in there. He knew his body still burned hot with fever, and that there was something going on in his arm. The added trauma from the stab wound, his dehydration and muscle weakness, and the aches that had never quite gone away after his jump off the bridge... All of it was working together to incapacitate him. And it was doing a fantastic job.

Neal felt like his body was shutting down around him, throwing white cloths over everything that used to be vital, and shuttering up. Pain was his constant companion, the rattling in his chest a new way of life. Would it even matter if he got Richards on his side once the infection in his shoulder settled in? Because it would settle in. When had anyone thought to sterilize a prison shiv before stabbing it in to someone? He was so weak already and he had nothing left to fight with.

“Try and relax,” Mallory said, suddenly appearing at Neal’s beside. He hadn’t even realized he’d drifted. Forcing his eyes towards the door he found no sign of Richards. The man was gone. 

_ Damn it. _

“Peter Burke,” Neal forced out, having to pause to cough when he choked on the words. Mallory had to raise the head of his bed up a few inches before it would stop. The new elevation helped with the hacking, but not with the pain that took him back over. He grabbed for the railings of his bed and didn’t let go again until the worst of it passed and he realized he’d lost all feeling in his hand.

“I know it hurts, but try to stay still, honey. The doctor will be here soon and then we’ll see about getting you over to the ER. You’re probably going to need some stitches and to be on the oxygen for a while.”

“What the hell are you doing in there with him?” a familiar voice bellowed from the door and both Neal and Mallory looked over to find a very angry looking Smith standing there. The wound in Neal’s shoulder gave an awful jolt as he heart tried to hammer its way out of his chest. Smith was the last person in the world he wanted to see right now.

“And why the hell is this asshole not in restraints!”

Smith stormed in, all but pushing Mallory out of the way. He grabbed Neal’s wrist, the one with the IV, and cuffed it to the bed before Neal even had the chance to protest. When the guard realized he couldn’t do the same with Neal’s other arm, he left the room in a huff, dragging Mallory along behind him. The door to Neal’s cell slammed shut behind them.

“That guy is a cop killer and was just involved in another inmate's death. What the hell were you thinking?” Smith said, rounding on his sister outside the door. Neal could still see them.

“I was trying to do my job, Frank,” Mallory snapped, pulling her arm out of Smith’s grip and rubbing at the spot like it hurt. Neal, still shaken and winded but grateful to have survived yet another encounter with the sadistic guard, tried his best to focus on what they were saying. It was hard. His mind kept wandering to the pain in his shoulder. There was more blood on the bandages now.

“I don’t care Mallory. I’m calling Jimmy. I just got off shift otherwise I’d do it myself, but that guy needs to be under 24 hour guard. And you are not to go in there unless you’re with Johnny or me.”

“Jesus, Franklin, give it a rest. I’m your sister, not one of your inmates.”

“Bite me, Mal,” Smith said back with all the wit of a wet noodle. “And don’t call me Franklin. Richards gets wind of that shit and he’ll never let me hear the end of it.”

“I like Ben. He’s a good guy.”

“You’re just saying that because he slept with you.” 

Mallory looked like she’d just been slapped again. “I told you that in confidence, you bastard. You promised me that you weren’t going to say anything about it.”

“Keep your pants on, Mal. I didn’t tell anyone if that’s what you’re worried about. But all the more reason to listen to your big brother and not go into the bad man’s cell alone anymore.”

Neal watched Mallory roll her eyes. “That guy in there couldn’t hurt a fly even if he wanted too.” Mallory pointed towards Neal. He closed his eyes quickly before Smith could look over and find that he was awake and listening. Semi awake at least, it was getting harder and harder to stay in the here and now. He was getting tired and his mind kept wanting to drift to other places, away from the pain, away from his traitorous body. Up and up away until he disappeared entirely. Or was it down, down, down? 

“He’s sick, dehydrated, malnourished, and weak as a kitten.”

_ Finally _ , Neal thought idly to himself.  _ Someone who understands. _

“You need to relax and stop being such a dick,  _ Franklin _ .”

“You tell him Mallory,” Neal accidentally said aloud. Lucky for him, it came out as little more than a wheezed whisper. Neither Smith nor Mallory even heard. 

Neal closed his eyes again and swallowed carefully, trying to sooth his abused throat a bit. It didn’t do much. Even with the IV hanging from the coat hanger beside his bed, it was no use. Nausea crept up on him once again. A cold clammy sensation he’d not been subjected too in a day or so. A sensation that made him nervous. Puking right now when he was barely holding on as it was, and with his shoulder, it was a recipe for disaster. He almost found himself wishing that Delores would get here already as his world wobbled and he tried to steady it with a hand on the bars of his bed again. The hand that didn’t go far because Smith had handcuffed him to the bed, but he managed it. Maybe she would at least let them give him some pain meds before sending him back to his cell...

When Neal was with it enough to actually become aware of his surroundings again, the promised guard was outside his window. Smith was gone but Mallory was back, standing beside his bed and fiddling with his makeshift IV stand. Every now and then she would shoot the guard standing at the door a murderous glare. Neal shook off his fatigue as best he could and started trying to psych himself up for trying to speak again. Being alone with the nurse was a situation he was only all too willing to take advantage of. He wet his lips and tried again as the woman checked his vitals. “Please… the FBI.”

“What was that, hon?” Mallory asked, pulling a stethoscope out of her ears and leaning in a little closer. Not close enough that he might be able to reach out and grab her, if that was his intention, but enough to hear better. Neal tried not to take it personally. He’d been trying to convince people for a week now that he was not the hardened criminal they all thought he was. That he was incapable of the crimes for which he’d been accused. But if he couldn’t convince them, then how was he supposed to convince Mallory? She was right to be afraid of him, and cautious. As a nurse in a prison, how could she not be? Either she was very new, or, like Richards, had sensed that he wasn’t a threat.

“Call Burke. Neal. Tell him I’m here. Please,” he tried again.

Neal couldn't even tell if he was making any sense or if the words had come out at all. Mallory just smiled a kind smile and reached out to pat the top of his good hand. She was gone a moment later. Whatever. It didn’t matter. Neal would try again at the hospital. Once they saw how sick he was and got some damn medicine into him, then maybe he wouldn't be so weak or incoherent.

But Neal should have known better. He should have guessed that the nightmare was far from over. The soft bed, warm blankets, IV fluids, they were just fate fucking around with him again. 

Smith came back and the man looked so livid, Neal was afraid he might unholster his weapon and start firing at him from the doorway. The guard on the door wisely got out of the man’s way as Smith barreled past him and made straight for the side of Neal’s bed. He was in civilian clothes now and without his gun. That was probably the only thing that saved Neal’s life in that moment. 

Cold fingers, long and calloused, curled around Neal’s neck, cutting off his oxygen and crushing his windpipe. He tried to defend himself as the guard just stood there in the doorway watching. Was this the infamous Johnny then? Smith’s partner in crime?

“Did you think I wouldn’t find out?” Smith screamed into his face. “That Leech and I didn’t have people stashed in every police station and sheriff's office in the county? 

The grip on his throat tightened, if that was even possible. Smith’s face was inches from his own. Somewhere far off, someone was yelling at the guard to stop.

“Forsythe was an idiot. I never should have let Leech talk me into letting him have a piece of you first.”

Neal’s good arm was still handcuffed to the bed. Had it not been, he would have torn at Smith’s hands with his fingernails. Dug them in as deep as they would go and then torn as much flesh away as he could. But Neal’s arm was not free and Smith was not stopping. Black spots began popping up in Neal’s field of vision as he started slipping away. He’d imagined the end would come someday. But not like this. Not when he’d come so close to getting sent to the hospital with another shot to contact Peter.

Peter. He would miss his friend when he was gone. He thought back on all the good times they’d shared over the years as the world faded away. Of Mozzie and June. His friends.

He couldn’t control it anymore. The end was coming whether he wanted it too or not.

“What in the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Smith’s hands disappeared from Neal’s throat. Lungs that he was sure had given up the fight kicked back in suddenly, and Neal drew in the biggest breath he could manage under the circumstances. It wasn’t enough. The blackness kept gathering, threatening to pull him down and never let him resurface again. The room spun and his chest heaved as he watched Smith and Richards go toe to toe in the middle of his hospital room. Smith went down after a spectacular uppercut from Richards. The guard was practically lifted off his feet, there was so much power behind the blow.

The world slipped farther away as Richards appeared at the side of his bed. “Sanchez?”

_ I’m not Sanchez. _

“Can you hear me? What’s wrong with him, Mallory?”

_ An excellent question. _

“Caffrey, come on! Hold on. They just got here.”

But Neal was already gone.


	22. The Moment You've All Been Waiting For

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These next few chapters are dedicated to my friend Roxane who spent hours with me pouring over every inch of these next few to make them as medically accurate as possible. If anything seems too Canadian, it's all her fault :)

“You ready for this, boss?” Diana asked as the two agents reached into the trunk of Peter’s car to retrieve their tactical gear.

Peter straightened the crooked FBI patch on the back of his tac vest before answering. “As ready as I’ll ever be, I guess.”

“You’re worried he’s not here,” Diana said. “Aren’t you?”

Peter inspected his weapon, pulling the clip out to make sure it was still full before tapping it against the pistol’s grip and slamming it back home again. Just like he’d always been taught. “More like he might be.”

Diana chewed on that for a moment as she secured the straps of her vest. The sound of the Velcro echoed around the parking lot. 

It had begun to snow and there was moisture beading on the car’s finish when Peter finally slammed the trunk lid closed. It had been a long time since he’d had to go into a place in full tactical gear, but he had no idea what to expect when they got into the prison and he was done playing it safe. If Neal really was in there, then Peter was going in guns blazing.

The prison parking lot where they all had gathered was overrun with vehicles. No lights this time though. Peter wasn’t expecting their arrival to go entirely unnoticed, but he figured at least some discretion was warranted. The SWAT van was parked in the fire lane just beside the set of stairs that led up to the prison’s main entrance. The ambulance was in one of the spots in the lot, it’s engine idling and its occupants' heads bent over their phones. 

Any other time and place and Peter might have had a problem with that. Maybe pulled up his FBI britches and gone over there to give the preoccupied medics a stern talking to. But today he let it go. Today he was willing to look the other way. Not because it didn’t bother him, but because he was still holding out hope that Neal would be ok and they wouldn’t even need the ambulance in the first place. It didn’t matter that Leech had already sent him a photo proving otherwise. In Peter’s eyes, and until he saw otherwise, Neal was perfectly fine. He would be leaving that prison on his own two feet in short order, grinning like a loon as the SWAT team guys gave him high fives and the sheriff’s men all clamoured to shake his hand. 

_ “We’re all so glad you’re ok,” _ they would say. And those relieved words would follow them back to New York where they would be repeated by their friends at White Collar as soon as Peter and Neal returned to the office triumphant and smiling. It could all still happen. Right?

“Head’s up, Boss,” Diana said, nodding over Peter’s shoulder. He turned his head and watched as a very disheveled and very tired looking man in his mid 60’s extricated himself from the passenger seat of a police cruiser. 

He nearly rolled his eyes when he looked back to Diana.  _ Here we go. _

“Which one of you is Peter Burke?” the very angry man demanded as soon as he reached them.

Peter turned, forcing a smile as he fished for his badge. “That would be me.”

“You better have a damn good reason for dragging me out of my bed in the middle of the night,  _ Agent _ ,” the man snapped, practically throwing Peter’s badge back at him after squinting at it for a moment. The elderly man needed no introduction.

Diana tapped Peter’s arm with the stack of papers Jones had faxed over to them before they left for the prison. Peter held them out to the warden. 

“I have a very good reason,” he said. “This is a federal warrant to search these premises. We have reason to believe a man is being held here against his will.

The warden seemed to pale under the weak light of the parking lot lamps. “ _ Excuse _ me?”

Peter extended the papers out a little further and the warden snatched them from his hand. He patted at a breast pocket for a moment before apparently realizing he had forgotten his glasses.

“Up top, Sir,” Peter pointed out. His efforts were rewarded by a glare from the warden as the man retrieved the glasses from the top of his head and settled them onto his nose. 

He skimmed the warrant at first, his eyes flashing across the page. But they soon slowed as the red anger on his face was gradually replaced by pale shock. “These are some pretty serious charges, Agent Burke.”

“So is kidnapping a federal employee and moving him across state lines,” Peter replied darkly. The FBI probably wouldn't have agreed with his assessment of Neal’s position at the bureau, but that hardly mattered now.

The warden paled further, if that was even possible. “What’s his name? This man you say we’re allegedly holding?”

“Neal,” Peter forced out. “Neal Caffrey.”

The warden seemed to ponder this for a moment as he handed the warrant papers back to Peter. “I’m sorry, Agent Burke, but that name doesn’t ring a bell.” 

Peter had been an FBI agent for a long time and he’d learned a thing or two while working with Neal. Like how to tell when someone was trying to hide something from him. The Warden, who Peter reminded himself was named Thomas Grant, was not acting like the sort of man who knew his involvement in a conspiracy was about to be exposed and he was in deep shit. This was genuine surprise and concern Peter saw on his face. And he almost didn’t know what to do with it. Every single person they’d come across during this entire investigation had been dirty and corrupt. Not one of them had shown even the slightest modicum of human decency or compassion. To find it in the warden of the Bucks County Correctional facility was a surprise to say the least. And for this man’s sake at least, It had better not be an act. 

“What about a corrections officer by the name of Franklin Smith?” Diana asked this time.

This name got a reaction from the warden who wrinkled up his nose in disgust. “Yes. What of him?”

“Is he on shift right now or anywhere on the premises?”

“I’d have to check,” he replied. “I don’t have the schedules memorized. They’re all on the computer in my office.”

“Then why don’t we take this little shindig inside so the warden can check his records and we all can warm up?” Sheriff Martin suggested, waking up to the little group. The SWAT team leader was with him, a man named Andy Gilchrest. 

“My guys can easily hang out here until you’re ready to move, Agent Burke,” Gilchrest added. 

Peter was fine with that plan. It was snowing harder now and the temperature had dropped considerably. A nice warm office was sounding pretty good right about now and Peter was ready to get this show on the road. 

Decision made, Diana and Peter began following the warden across the parking lot and towards the prison. They’d not made it 30 feet before a figure came bursting through the darkened doors of the entrance. It was a guard, Peter realized as the young man paused at the top of the stairs to stare out over the packed parking lot with mouth agape. His eyes swept over the police cruisers and milling SWAT team members before finally settling on the Warden. He came bounding down the stairs, taking them two at a time in his haste before jogging the rest of the way across the lot. He was winded by the time he reached them.

“Warden Grant! I can’t believe you’re here!”

“What do you want, Officer Barrett?” Grant asked. 

The officer’s eyes were wide as saucers. “I mean, Richards told me you’d probably be out here with a bunch of FBI agents, but I didn’t believe him. I thought he was pulling my leg.”

“ _Officer_ _Barrett_ ,” the warden repeated. 

Barret couldn’t have been older than 20 and his face colored when he realized everyone was hanging on his every word.

“Oh Christ, I’m sorry. Officer Richards told me to come out here and tell you there’s been an incident in the infirmary.”

Peter stiffened, instantly alert. “What kind of an incident?” he asked.

The guard glanced over at Peter and then back to his boss. Grant gave him a nod indicating it was ok to answer. 

“Between one of our guards and an inmate, Sir.”

“Which guard?” Peter and Grant asked at the same time. This was apparently becoming a thing for him. 

“The one they call Smithy, I think? I’m not sure. I’m still pretty new. Frank, maybe?”

Peter had to pause and take a breath as the officer’s words sunk in. Smith was here, and he had just been involved in an incident with an inmate. It had to be Neal. It was just too much of a coincidence. 

But Peter also knew it was too early to hope, and that he needed to keep that hope (and his nerves) in check until they knew for certain that Neal really was here. He had to stay calm and focused, because losing it now wasn’t going to do anyone any favors. Least of all Neal.

“And the inmate? Peter asked, pleased that he was able to keep his voice so steady. 

“That I don’t know, Sir. Richards just grabbed me in the hall and sent me out here to tell the Warden and the FBI guy to get up to the infirmary  _ pronto _ .”

That was all the confirmation Peter needed. He turned to the warden. 

“Of course, Agent Burke,” the man answered before Peter could even open his mouth to ask. 

That taken care of, he turned to Diana next, but she, too, was already two steps ahead of him.

“I got it, Boss. I’ll stay here with SWAT and get ready to breach on your order, if we need to.”

“And have your paramedics pull round to the back while you’re at it,” the warden added. “There’s a door near the infirmary we use for transporting injured prisoners to the hospital. They can use that to… I mean, if your man is… well, what I mean to say is… just in case… you know.”

Peter did know. He’d been finishing that thought for himself ever since leaving the sheriff's office. New York, really.

_ In case Neal was dead.  _

_ In case his CI was seriously injured and required medical attention.  _

They were all swirling around his brain, though Peter refused to let any of them come forward and be acknowledged. 

“I’m on it, Peter,” Diana said again, touching the side of his arm. “Go.”

Peter and the warden followed Barrett into the prison. They passed through a heavy metal gate that marked the entrance to the cell blocks and then through a confusing warren of long hallways, dark, cramped stairwells lined with chain link fencing, and heavily guarded checkpoints. Peter lost track of how many they’d been buzzed through by the time they finally reached the infirmary. 

It was nothing more than a door in a hallway. A slab of pine hung in a painted frame with a white sign on the door that announced it was the Prison Infirmary in red, splashy letters. It was nothing special or particularly extraordinary. Yet it felt like the gates of hell.

His steps faltered suddenly, his palms sweaty as he rubbed them against the fabric of his pants. This was it. Moment of truth. He unholstered his gun for good measure and Barrett shot him a confused look. Peter shrugged. There was no time to explain to the young man why he felt the need to pull his weapon. Describe all the emotions that were churning around in his guts and fighting for supremacy. How utterly terrified he was to go through that door and possibly find Neal dead on the other side. Or even worse, not find him there at all. Peter wasn’t sure what would happen with either scenario, so gun it was. 

But in the end, it didn’t even matter. 

The three men stepped into the room and were immediately greeted by the sight of an unconscious man slumped over and cuffed to a chair. Peter elbowed his way past Barrett and Grant, holstering his weapon as he moved in for a closer look. 

Could it be? The crooked nose and black hair were certainly evidence enough, but he still had to get in closer to be sure. 

But there was no denying it. The unconscious man in the chair, the one who was bleeding from the mouth with a slightly swollen face, was none other than Franklin Smith. The nephew of Robert Leech. The man who was likely holding Neal. And if he was here, then maybe…

“You Burke?” someone asked and Peter tore his eyes away from the unconscious Smith and over to the person who had addressed him. There were two other guards in the room, he realized suddenly, and one of them was holding the other at gunpoint. They were both breathing heavily and showing all the signs of a recent battle. Peter reached for his sidearm as he met the eyes of the man holding the gun.

“Officer Richards,” the warden demanded, “what is the meaning of this?”

But Richards ignored his boss. 

“He’s in there.” 

Richards inclined his head towards one of three cells in the infirmary. Peter glanced over into a small cell that was set up much like any other hospital room he’d ever been in. There was a table and equipment, even an IV hanging from what looked to be some kind of stretched out coat hanger. But that wasn’t what brought Peter’s world to a sudden and unexpected halt - like he had been the one up on that bridge in that shitty Ford tempo instead of Neal and Jones. What stole the breath from his lungs and had him barreling past Richards and into the room as if the world was on fire.

Because it was.

Peter’s eyes couldn’t decide which utterly wrong thing they wanted to focus on first: the fact that it was Neal lying unconscious in the cell’s bed - Neal, with his twin black eyes and battered face. Livid red bruises in the shape of long fingers encircling his throat. The man who was struggling and wheezing for breath even while unconscious - or the frantic nurse who was begging for Peter’s help the moment he entered the room.

“Please,” she said.

Peter’s feet moved forward of their own accord, some hidden instinct taking over while his higher brain functions were off on holiday.

“I need you to apply pressure to his wound.”

She grabbed his hands and placed them over a saturated bandage covering Neal’s shoulder.

“Right there, hard as you can.”

He did as he was told and blood welled up between his fingers. Again his brain was having difficulty deciding which horrible thing it would focus on first, the blood on his hands or the panicked way in which the nurse was trying to resuscitate Neal. This seemed to entail trying to take his vitals all while keeping the oxygen mask secured over his face at the same time. Breath or blood, blood or breath, he kept waffling back and forth until there was a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Agent Burke?” It was Gale, one of the paramedics from the parking lot, his paramedics. The other one was there, too. He hadn't even heard them come in.

“She told me to apply pressure.”

Gale smiled. “And you’re doing a fantastic job. But why don’t you let me take over?”

Something in Peter’s brain clicked back into place and he realized that he was in the way. They were trying to get to Neal and Peter was being an idiot. He immediately removed his hands from Neal’s shoulder and stepped aside. The paramedics swooped in just as fast, and Peter just kept going backwards until his back hit the wall. He stayed there watching while they worked.

Gale took the head of the bed and her partner, Tim, began rummaging through the bag of supplies they had brought with them.

“What have we got?” Gale asked.

It was the infirmary nurse who answered. “Dominic Sanchez, 30 years old. Strangulation trauma to the throat. Stab wound to the chest. The bleeding was under control until a few minutes ago but started again after he was assaulted. Bilateral breath sounds but clinical signs of what could be pneumonia. He’s been unresponsive for the last five minutes. He was at 94% on  5 liters before he was strangled, but I had to raise it to 8,” she rattled off.

Gale narrowed her eyes as she looked over at the nurse. The paramedic seemed to be extremely annoyed by what she’d just heard. “This man should be in a hospital, not a prison infirmary,” she snapped. “Why didn’t you call us sooner?”

But the nurse didn’t answer. She just averted her eyes to the floor, as if the tiles had suddenly become the most interesting thing in the room. Peter wasn’t sure what was going on there, but he sure as hell was going to find out. Once Neal was taken care of, of course.

Gale shook her head in disgust at the woman before focusing her attention back on Neal. She dug her knuckles into his sternum as Tim wrapped a blood pressure cuff around Neal’s arm. “Dominic? Can you hear me?”

“ _ Neal _ ,” Peter said, suddenly finding his voice. Gale’s head popped up again as their eyes met. “His name is Neal, not Dominic.”

She nodded once. “Ok then, come on Neal, open your eyes for me buddy.” 

But Neal was not responding. His bruised eyes remained closed as he continued to struggle for air.

Gale pulled a stethoscope from around her neck and started listening to his chest. Peter thought he saw the smallest flicker of concern cross her face before she pulled the stethoscope from her ears and moved to the very head of Neal’s bed. 

“Pass me the OPA, would you Tim?” she asked her partner. Peter didn’t know what an OPA was, but he sure as hell didn’t miss it when Tim looked up sharply from where he had begun sticking little white pads to Neal’s chest beneath his jumpsuit.

“And the C-Collar while you’re at it,” Gale added while gently palpating the sides of Neal’s neck and then prying his jaws apart to shine a penlight down his throat. Peter nearly lost his shit when she added, “He’s not protecting his airway.”

Peter felt all the blood drain from his face as the paramedic’s words washed over him. This was all wrong. This was not the way any of this was supposed to go. Neal was supposed to be ok. Had Peter’s hands not been covered in blood, he might have brought them up to his face. 

He wasn’t stupid, he knew Neal was going to be at least a little worse for wear after being kidnapped and held in a prison for a week - despite what Peter kept telling himself on the way over here - but not like this. Never like this. 

Peter felt lost. He glanced down at his hands. The ones covered in Neal’s blood. 

Never like this.

It was all so incredibly  _ wrong _ . 

When Peter forced himself to look up again, Tim was fishing through their kit for whatever Gale had asked for. Gale was still at the head of Neal’s bed though she was now using the index and middle fingers of each hand to push Neal’s jaw up, her elbows planted on either side of his head for more leverage. 

Tim resurfaced from the depths of their bag a moment later holding something in one of those packages medical supplies always seemed to come in. Opaque plastic with a window at the front so you could tell what it was. The contraption inside reminded Peter a little of a meat hook, though this one was short, made of plastic, and slightly flattened. Tim passed the package over to Gale who let go of Neal’s jaw to rip it open and hold it up to the side of his face. Why, Peter could only guess.

“That’ll do,” Gale said a moment later before gently prying Neal’s jaws apart yet again. Peter watched in horrid fascination as she began to slowly push the tube-like object down Neal’s throat. And when Peter said push, he really meant forced. He almost said something it was so hard to watch, but stopped himself. He knew Neal was now in the best hands possible and he had to trust in Gale’s abilities. She wasn’t some shoddy prison nurse who had left a man to die in an infirmary cell. Gale was the paramedic the county had hand-picked to send with Peter on this little mission. She knew what she was doing.

Even so, Peter held his breath as he watched her struggle for another moment or two before she twisted the tube 180 degrees and gave a triumphant little “Got it!” 

She was smiling as she replaced the oxygen mask on Neal’s face with one they had brought along. “How are we doing over there, Tim?” she asked her partner.

Tim had Neal hooked up to a cardiac monitor by now and began listing off the vitals he’d been collecting. Gale paid close attention as she began to cut away the bandages from Neal’s shoulder. 

“BP is 92/56. Heart rate 116. Respirations are 28. I’ll do the sat again in a minute since we just got the mask back on him,” Tim said as he passed Gale a wad of gauze. Peter tried to sift through his rudimentary medical knowledge and decide how bad all that was supposed to be.

Gale took the gauze and recovered Neal’s shoulder. “Alrighty, let’s move him.”

The guard called Richards came forward and helped the paramedics transfer Neal over onto their gurney once they had stabilized his neck with the c-collar. When that was done and Neal had been secured, they rushed out of the room with hardly a glance back. Peter, realizing that he needed to snap the hell out of it now, and do his goddamn job, shook the shock from around his shoulders and turned to follow. The warden tried to come with him.

“Agent Burke, I have to insist that two of my guards accompany Mr. San - Neal to the hospital in the ambulance,” the man said as he struggled to keep pace with Peter who was practically jogging to catch up with the paramedics. “He is still considered an inmate here and it's against protocol for me to allow you to take him out of the prison unaccompanied.”

“Are you kidding me?” Peter growled over his shoulder without slowing down, even though he wanted to. Even though he wanted nothing more than to stop dead in his tracks, right there in the middle of the hallway, grab that stupid man by his rumpled lapels and shake him. Shake him until he understood how serious all of this was. What it would mean for him if Neal died because of what happened here. “Are you seriously trying to argue protocol with me at a time like this? After what just happened back there?”

But the warden would not back down. “I know how that sounds, but you have to look at it from my prospective. I have no proof that this man is who you say he is. I have to protect the paramedics in that ambulance. It’s just the way it’s got to be, Agent Burke.”

“I don’t think so, warden,” Peter shot back. He was entirely done with this entire situation. “There is no way in hell I'm leaving Neal alone with any of your men.” It was like every professional filter he’d ever had was gone and he didn’t care. He kind of liked it, actually.

They’d reached the side door of the prison by now and Peter walked into a wall of cold air mixed with snow. The paramedics were already loading Neal into the back of their rig. It was now or never.

“Agent Burke, please!”

Peter turned on the warden, his face calm and voice low. “Let me make one thing perfectly clear to you, Warden Grant. If any of your men so much as try and stop me, or get into the back of that ambulance with me, I will shoot them on sight.” 

Grant went pale under the lights again and snapped his mouth shut.

“And then,” Peter continued, pointing a finger at the warden’s face, “I’ll be back for your job.” 

And he meant it. Peter was going to use all that hate that had been growing inside of him since the very beginning and use it to ruin a lot of lives once this was all over. What were a few more names added to the list?

“I’m going with,” he informed rather than asked the paramedics after they finished loading Neal into the back of the ambulance. Gale looked to the warden for confirmation that it was ok, but the man was otherwise occupied. Diana had shown up finally and was giving the man a rundown of the shitstorm that was about to descend on his prison if he didn’t stand down and let Peter handle things. This seemed to satisfy Gale who waved him in. 

Peter settled himself down onto the bench and the doors were slammed shut behind him, cutting off the sounds and the snow. He glanced out of one of the little windows cut into the doors and caught Diana’s eyes through the glass. 

She was going to take care of everything, she promised with her eyes.  _ Don’t you worry about a thing. _

Only Peter was going to worry. There was plenty to worry about. They were rushing Neal to the hospital for heaven's sake, and he was pretty sure he’d just threatened to shoot a bunch of prison guards. Regardless, Peter found himself nodding anyway. Promising even though he knew he’d never be able to keep that promise. 

The ambulance pulled away from the prison and Peter didn’t look away from the windows again until Diana disappeared from view.


	23. I've Got You

As the ambulance navigated the increasingly treacherous county roads of central Pennsylvania, Peter sat on the bench and tried to stay out of the way. He held Neal’s hand when he could, and watched Gale the paramedic closely when he couldn’t. She fussed around Neal nervously, checking his vitals every few minutes and assessing his wound. The tube down Neal’s throat, she’d explained to him earlier as he used a cloth to rub Neal’s blood off his hands, was to help maintain Neal’s airway. But Peter was trying very hard not to think about Neal’s airway at the moment. For when he did, the list of his injuries the infirmary nurse had rattled off began playing over and over again in his head.

Strangulation. Had that been Smith? Was that why the guard was unconscious, bleeding, and cuffed to a chair? Why Richards had posted himself outside Neal’s cell? Had Smith somehow gotten wind that Diana and Peter were there? That might explain why Richards knew who Peter was. Or had Neal told Richards who he was and there was much more going on here than met the eye. And stabbed? Was that Smith, too? Then pneumonia and the broken arm added on to all that. 

Peter let his eyes rake over Neal’s unconscious form. He  _ looked _ sick. It had only been a week since he’d been taken and he’d already lost so much weight and muscle mass. Neal had always been thin, but now he looked like a living skeleton beneath the blankets Gale had draped over him. He was still unconscious too.

And speaking of Gale. “How much longer Tim?” she asked her partner a moment later.

“Five minutes out,” was Tim’s reply.

“What’s wrong?” Peter asked and Gale glanced up at him from the monitor she was checking.

“Blood pressure is down, 78/52.”

That was all foreign to Peter, but he didn’t press it. He would much rather let the woman focus on Neal rather than answer any of his stupid questions. There would be time enough for that later when Neal was safely at the hospital.

Peter took his friend’s hand and did not have to let go again until they pulled up to the ambulance bay exactly five minutes later. Someone owed Tim a beer.

Peter jumped out as soon as the ambulance doors were thrown open. He gave Gale and Tim plenty of room as they carefully unloaded Neal from the back and rushed him towards the ER’s automatic doors. As they went, Peter noticed an unmarked police cruiser pull up behind the ambulance. A familiar officer climbed out of the passenger seat and Peter once again locked eyes with the guard named Richards. He glared at the man as they entered the ER. 

But once Gale started to explain Neal’s condition to the doctor that met them, Peter forgot all about the guard.

“Neal Caffrey…” 

_ Finally _ **,** Peter breathed as Gale used the right name.

“30 years old."

“35,” Peter added, though he was largely ignored.

“Transfer from Bucks. Unresponsive at the scene. Treated for dehydration with fluids at the prison. He got one liter of saline by IV in the ambulance. Throat trauma from severe manual strangulation, airway secured by oropharyngeal airway. Possible pneumonia. Last BP was 78/52. Heart rate is 118. Oxygen sats are at 91% on full mask. Glucose within normal limits. He’s also got a stab wound to the shoulder, active bleeding, decreased breath sounds on the left, and what looks to be a possible closed fracture of the left lower arm,” Gale explained as they wheeled Neal into a treatment room. While Peter wasn’t forced to leave, he did have to let go of Neal's hand and watch helplessly from the doorway as his friend’s limp body was transferred from the paramedic’s gurney onto the one already set up in the trauma room. 

“Neal? Can you hear me?” the doctor asked loudly, once again digging his knuckles into Neal’s sternum. This time he reacted. It was brief, but Peter did not miss it when Neal’s good hand lifted from the bed ever so slightly and his eyelids fluttered. The movement was there and then gone.

“Come on, Neal. Open your eyes,” the doctor tried again, but there was no response this time. Peter rubbed a nervous hand over his mouth.

“Alright,” the doctor said with a sigh, “let's establish another IV and push another liter of saline. What are his vitals?”

“Blood pressure is 80/56, heart rate still at 118, respirations 30 and his sat is 92 on 15 liters,” someone answered him. Peter wished he had paid closer attention in his basic first aid classes. Maybe then he would have been able to make heads or tails of what all those numbers meant.

“Do we have a temp?” the doctor asked next, and Peter watched as Neal was rolled over on his side, all the IV’s and crisscrossing wires going with him.

“38.9,” someone answered. That number Peter knew. Neal was running a fever and it was about 102.

While the doctor continued his assessment - listening to Neal’s heart and lungs with a stethoscope - one of the nurses busied herself with removing the blood soaked gauze from Neal’s shoulder. A fresh wave of viscous red welled up from the puncture wound almost immediately. The shiv had gone in so near the area of his heart, Peter couldn’t believe the blade hadn't hit something vital. Too vital. The doctor seemed to share his concerns and inspected the wound carefully before ordering the nurse to apply a pressure bandage. While all of that was happening, yet another nurse had begun cutting away the rest of the dirty, orange jumpsuit Neal was still wearing.

“Okay, I want CBC, lytes, extended lytes, creatinine, urea, a venous blood gas, lactate, coags, type and cross for 2 units. Let's also do CK and troponin, a liver panel and two sets of blood cultures,” the doctor rattled off, though Peter hardly heard the words. He was too busy watching in horrified silence as Neal’s jumpsuit was cut the rest of the way from his body. 

His hand came up to cover his mouth in shock. Not only were Neal’s bones painfully visible under his pale skin, but every inch of his body seemed to be covered in fading bruises. The sickening colors were blotted onto his skin like an artist might have put them there on purpose, contouring them to bring out the worst of the damage and invoke a feeling of outrage from the viewer. 

Peter had to look away. He tried to convince himself it was just because he wanted to give Neal a little privacy before the nurses covered him back up again, but it wasn’t the truth. He just couldn’t handle it anymore. The world was on fire again.

Peter was angry. Peter was  _ outraged _ . How in the hell had this been allowed to happen? How in the world had Neal been kept a secret for so long in that prison with injuries like these? Peter wanted to punch someone. Make them feel as angry and helpless as he felt right now.

“Let’s get x-rays of his chest, neck and arm,” the doctor continued, recatching Peter’s attention. He had to move out of the way as several important looking x-ray technicians barged into the room a few minutes later. The nurses all worked together to roll Neal over onto his side as a grey slab type object was placed on the bed. Peter watched them do it, flinching when Neal’s eyelids fluttered again and Peter thought he heard his friend moan beneath his oxygen mask. But the nurses rolled him back over a moment later and Peter was no longer sure he’d actually heard it. Everyone stepped back, and then it was over with a few clicks of a button. The x-ray techs breezed out of the room again with hardly a sidelong glance to Peter as the nurses all swooped back in.

Everything must have been pretty instantaneous because it wasn’t long before the doctor was peering down at a computer screen with the x-ray results. 

“Someone page respiratory,” he ordered without looking up. “I need them down here for a consult  _ now _ . And ortho too. What are his vitals?”

Peter listened as they were listed off again. Blood pressure at 74/48, heart rate at 120, respirations still at 30, his sats down to 87% on 15 liters. It was the 7 on the Glasgow Coma Scale that really got his attention. But Peter was too terrified by now to ask for an explanation. It sounded to him like Neal was crashing.

“Alright, let's push another liter of normal saline. I want to get that blood pressure up before we need to intubate. Have ketamine and rocuronium standing by. We're also gonna need a chest tube for the pneumothorax so prep the kit.” the doctor paused to take a breath. “And then will someone please get him out of here?”

Peter realized a second too late that the doctor was pointing at him. A nurse left Neal’s side and started gently herding him out of the room. 

So they’d come to it then, had they? That invisible line in the sand. The one not even his badge or his gun could get him across. The one protected by nurses and angry looking orderlies. A line Neal could cross, but not Peter. Never Peter. Not even if he were family.

“I need to stay with him,” he pleaded with the young male nurse as he was slowly backed out of the room.

“I’m very sorry sir, but you can’t be in there for this next part.” 

The nurse had gotten him all the way out of the room by now and the door to the exam room was rolled shut behind them. Peter could no longer see Neal. The door was made of glass but the nurses had pulled closed the curtain around his bed.

Peter fished for his badge, even though he knew it was a lost cause. His tac vest and gun alone were proof enough of who he was. “Look, my name is Peter Burke and I’m an agent with the FBI. That man in there works for me and his life may be in danger.”

It was partially true at least. Smith might have been secured back at the prison, but Leech and Park were still out there. Neal really wasn’t safe yet, as much as Peter hated to admit it.

“We have a private room you can wait in. As soon as they get Neal stabilized, then we’ll let you back in. You have to think of what’s best for your friend right now. Let us do our jobs.”

Peter could tell that no amount of arguing was going to convince the nurse to let him back in that room. There weren't many places in this world where his badge meant nothing, and couldn't gain him entry. He could probably count them all on one hand. The Doylestown ER had now been added to that list.

“I’ll wait with you, Agent Burke,” a voice said from behind him and Peter spun around to find Richards had sprung up again. Officer Barrett was with him too, though the young man hung back and said nothing. 

Peter’s face heated with anger. But before he could even begin to remind these two men about the promise he’d made to Warden Grant back at the prison - or tell them how monumentally stupid it was to insist that Neal, a man who had been kidnapped and held for a week under what he could only imagine were deplorable conditions, was a flight risk - Richards was putting up his hands.

“I’m not here to piss you off, Agent Burke. The warden wanted Caffrey guarded and I was able to convince him to send me and Barrett. Barrett will stand guard out here and make sure nothing happens to our friend while we talk.

Peter narrowed his eyes at the guard, trying to decide if he trusted him or not. He certainly had been protective of Neal back at the prison and seemed to know more about what was going on than anyone else Peter had yet to meet today. He reluctantly agreed to allow Richards to come with him, and the nurse showed them to the waiting room in question. Peter glanced over to make sure Barrett really was on the door before walking in. He was, not that it made Peter any less on edge. He probably would be until they were all back home in New York and Leech and Park were behind bars.

“I’m Joel, by the way,” the nurse explained once they were all inside. “Do you two need anything before I go?”

Both men shook their heads.

“Ok, someone will be in to talk to you as soon as possible.”

He left and Peter suddenly found himself alone with Richards. There was no one else in the waiting room and a TV was on but there was no sound. Some concerned looking correspondent sat behind a desk trying to look important as he shuffled paper’s around and frowned into the camera. Peter tuned it out and turned on Richards.

“Alright, out with it. I want to know everything.”

Richards sighed. “And that’s fine, but we gotta get one thing straight. All of this is off the record. I’m not making an official statement until I speak with my union rep.”

“ _ Fine _ ,” Peter snapped.

Richards collapsed into one of the mauve waiting room chairs, adjusting his belt to get comfortable. Peter followed suit. He considered taking off his tac vest but it didn’t feel right. Not yet.

“The first thing you gotta understand is that I’m married,” Richards began. 

It was an odd way to start off the conversation, but Peter went with it.

“I started sleeping with Frank’s sister, Mallory, about six months ago. She’s the nurse you met in the prison infirmary.”

“I remember,” Peter said, frowning. 

“Smith found out about it and has been threatening to tell my wife. We’re on the rocks already but trying to make it work. You know how it goes.”

Peter nodded, even though he had no clue. Sure, he and El had their problems, but they’d always been able to work them out before getting to a point where Peter would call their marriage “rocky.”

“I work with Smith down in solitary. When I showed up for shift about a week ago, we had a new guy in 3. The paperwork said he was Dominic Sanchez and an inmate convicted of killing a cop. Everything was in order, but I kind of had an inkling that something wasn’t right. Sanchez… or I guess I should call him Neal, was beat to hell, pretty sick already, and really wasn’t making much sense at first. He kept trying to tell me he was Neal Caffrey and that I needed to call the FBI. I just thought he was trying to play the system, ya know? These inmates will do just about anything to get out of those cells.”

Peter tried to keep his face a mask of calm and indifference as he listened to Richards’ tale, but it was difficult. That hate that had been growing inside of him was beginning to fester now. 

“I really started to get wise the day Smith beat the shit out of Caffrey after I told him what Neal had been asking me to do. When I questioned him about it, he threatened to tell my wife about my affair with Mallory. He even had pictures he was going to use to get me fired from my job. I’m not proud of it, Agent Burke, but I kept quiet about my suspicions. It was eating me alive though and I actually looked up your number a time or two. Tonight, when I got back on shift, I was going to talk to Neal one more time. If I still felt like something was off, I was going to call you right then and there.

“But when I got to the prison, Neal wasn’t in his cell. This other guard who helps us out down in solitary sometimes told me about how Smith had taken Neal to the yard. She was worried because she’d overheard Smith and a couple of other guards talking about how some new inmate had arrived at the prison who knew Sanch - Neal. And how they were going to put the two of them in the yard and take bets on which one killed the other first. I got to the yard as fast as I could, but the other inmate had already stabbed Neal by then. I managed to bring him down before he could do anything worse than stab him in the shoulder. He’s dead, by the way.”

“Do you know who the inmate was?” Peter asked, his voice rough with the emotions he was barely keeping in check.

“He had a pretty unusual name. Fort something or other”

“Kurt Forsythe?” Peter asked, eyebrows raising.

“That’s him.” 

So they’d come full circle then, Peter thought to himself. Bringing down Forsythe and his crew had started it all and now Forsythe’s death would end it. It was poetic almost, though Peter had to remind himself that this was far from over yet. Neal was still in terrible danger, both from Leech and Park, and now his own injuries. The injuries the man sitting in front of him had wholly ignored.

Richards’ voice began to shake. “I know it seems empty and too little too late, but I really am sorry this happened, Agent Burke. I should have said something the minute I suspected something was off with Caffrey and how Smith was treating him. But I was too scared. That's on me, and it’s gonna haunt me until the day I die.” The guard dropped his head.

Peter tried to be understanding, he really did, but Richards was the closest thing he had to a physical manifestation of the bad guy in this story, and he no longer possessed the strength to keep his anger hidden, or tucked behind the quiet and calm exterior he always displayed to the world.

“If he dies…” Peter started, but he couldn’t finish the sentence. Richards shoulders shuddered as he buried his face in his hands. 

“I need a minute alone,” Peter said simply, entirely unimpressed with the man’s show of emotion. “There are… people I need to call.”

Richards looked up. “Of course. I understand. I’ll go check on Barrett and find myself a cup of coffee.”

Peter watched as the guard rose from his chair and made his way out of the room with heavy, laborsome steps. Richards paused at the door. “Would you like me to bring you anything when I come back?”

“You don’t need to come back,” Peter answered, flatly, watching Richards’ head fall again as he nodded. Peter instantly regretted it. This was just his anger talking. Richards had protected Neal at the prison and probably stopped Smith from killing him. Peter needed to remember that.

“Officer,” he called out before the man could leave. The guard turned around, his eyes shining with emotion. 

“Frank Smith. What happened with him in the infirmary?”

Richards sniffed and wiped at his nose with a sleeve. “Someone tipped him off that you were coming. He attacked San…  _ Neal _ in the infirmary. I had just pulled him off and cuffed him to a chair when you guys showed up.”

“And the other one? The one you were holding at gunpoint?”

“That was just Johnny, one of Smith’s buddies. He’s an idiot, but he’s harmless.”

Peter decoded the explanation was enough, though barely. 

“Thank you,” he said.

Richards modded and then pulled open the door.

Peter stopped the man one last time. “So maybe make it a bottle of water when you come back then.”

Richards’ face was unreadable when he turned back around. “You got it, Agent Burke.”

The door snicked to a quiet close behind the guard and Peter was finally alone. He went searching for his cellphone, finding it one of the vest’s pockets. It was nearly dead and vibrating every few seconds with incoming calls and texts. Peter made sure none of them were from anyone important before starting in on the calls that really mattered. The only people he really wanted to talk to.

Jones already knew. Peter should have figured Diana would call her partner as soon as she had the chance. Hughes was next and they passed empty congratulations back and forth, along with promises to keep each other in the loop as the shit began to hit the fan. Peter agreed to keep Hugues updated on Neal’s condition and his boss promised to get to the bottom of Neal’s incarceration and his new alias, Dominic Sanchez. Peter liked his boss’ plan. As soon as Neal was deemed a free man, he was going to have a grand old time throwing Richards and Barrett out of the hospital. Though, after the conversation he’d just had with the guard, maybe that wasn’t going to be quite as fun as he imagined.

When Peter was done talking to Don and leaving a cryptic message for Mozzie he knew the con would appreciate, he got ready to call Elizabeth.

She picked up on the first ring. 

There was no hello, no preamble, just, “Did you find him?”

“We did.”

“Is he alive?” 

Peter hated that his wife had to ask him a question like that. He prayed that there would never come a day when he, nor any other FBI agent for that matter, would ever have to give her any other answer than the one he gave now.

“He’s alive.” Peter swallowed. “But he’s in really rough shape, El.”

Elizabeth was quiet on the other end of the line as Peter fought for control. Tears were threatening but he wouldn’t let them come. He needed to be strong, calm, focused. Do for Neal what he couldn’t do for himself right now. Fight for him in the ways Peter should have been fighting for him since day one.

“How is he?” El finally asked in a quiet voice.

Peter ran a hand over his eyes, his tac vest suddenly very tight across the chest. “The doctors are in with him now. Someone’s supposed to come out and talk to me when they’re done.” 

There was more he wanted to tell her, but the words would no longer come.

“Do you need me to come over there, Peter?” his wife asked, picking up on the distress in his voice in that supernatural way of hers. “You just say the word and I will hop in a car and be there by dawn.”

Peter smiled at that. Of course she would want to come. Of course she would want to be here. And not just for Peter, but for Neal too. Her presence would help him find that calm and focus he was looking for. The strength he would need to face all this once people started trying to get out in front of the whole mess. Peter wanted to say yes, and knew his wife would do exactly as she promised. She would jump in that car and make it here before dawn. 

But it wasn’t safe yet. El needed to be home where Peter knew she could be protected from Park. They all needed to be home, in fact. And if Neal survived this… No, that wasn't right.  _ When _ Neal survived this, Peter would see that he was transported back to New York as soon as possible. 

_ Home _ . 

Peter could protect everyone better there. It’s where their entire support system was located. Where they could surround themselves with people who loved them and would protect Neal at all costs. Here in Bucks County, Pennsylvania even the nurses made Peter nervous. Any one of them could be working for Leech and they would never know it.

“As much as I would love to have you here, El,” Peter answered finally, “it's just not safe yet. I need some time to figure out what happened here and I can’t do that if I’m worried about you all the time.”

El was quiet for a second, but eventually answered. “I get it, hun. But I’m here. Any time, day or night. You just pick up the phone and call me, ok?”

“Ok,” Peter agreed.

“I’m serious, Burke,” she added, pulling another smile from Peter. “Any time. Day or night.”

“Family of Neal Caffrey?” a voice called out, pulling Peter’s focus before he could comment. There was a head poking in through the door. It was the same doctor from Neal’s trauma room and Peter jumped up instantly, almost dropping his phone.

“El, I gotta go. The doctor is here,” he said as the man in question spotted him and came forward. He looked tired and there was blood splashed across his scrubs.

“Ok, but call me the moment you know something!” El begged frantically in his ear.

“I will. I love you, Elizabeth.”

“I love you, too Pe…” but Peter had already ended the call. He would apologize later for cutting her off.

“I understand you’re the FBI agent who arrived with Mr. Caffrey?” the doctor asked, extending a hand. Peter shook it. It was warm and dry and left a slight dusting of powder on Peter’s palm. Probably from the gloves. “Neal will be in no shape to talk to you or anyone else for quite some time.”

“No, that’s not…” Peter had to pause and take a breath. “I’m not here because Neal is in FBI custody. I’m here because he’s my friend and also my kidnapping case.”

“Oh!” the doctor said, his white eyebrows chasing up after his equally white hairline. “I just assumed… well, that explains a lot.”

Peter raised an eyebrow in confusion.

“Why don’t we have a seat,” the doctor suggested. 

Peter undid the velcro straps of his tac vest and threw it into an empty chair before sitting down again. Something told him he was going to need all of the lung capacity to get through this next part. 

When they were settled, Peter noted Richards had slipped back into the room. The doctor noticed too and looked to Peter for confirmation that it was ok to continue. Peter indicated he could as Richards handed him a bottle of water and took an empty beside him.

“Are we expecting any of Mr. Caffrey’s family?”

“No,” Peter admitted, his mouth suddenly very dry. “My wife and I… we’re really all the family he has.” There were others, of course. Friends who were as dear to Neal as any family ever could be. But they were all back in New York. And the doctor didn’t need to know that right now.

“Well, I’m Dr. Weiss. I’m the ER doctor who examined Mr. Caffrey when he arrived.”

“I remember,” Peter said, contemplating taking a drink of his water but too terrified to move. “How is he?”

“I’m not going to lie to you, Agent Burke. Mr. Caffrey has a lot going on at the moment. In addition to a collapsed lung from being stabbed in the chest, he’s also dealing with sepsis due to his untreated pneumonia and complications from the throat trauma. We’ve intubated him to help him maintain his airway due to the swelling and help stabilize his vitals. We’ve also inserted a chest tube to help inflate his collapsed lung.”

The temperature in the room seemed to drop about 20 degrees as cold dread crept up Peter’s spine. Images of Neal hooked up to machines were conjured from nowhere as the blood in his veins turned to ice. 

_ Intubated. Ventilator. Life Support. _

This couldn’t be happening.

“We’ll monitor his condition closely and give him antibiotics for the pneumonia. I’ve asked for a consult from ortho and they should be able to tell us if his shoulder or arm will require surgery. If that’s the case, they’ll likely tackle those issues once Neal’s a little stronger and more stable. We’ve got the shoulder and arm stabilized for now.”

Peter swallowed. “But is he going to be ok?” It was a question he’d been wanting to ask ever since the prison but had been too afraid.

The doctor leaned forward, resting his elbow on the arm of his chair. “Mr. Caffrey is young and healthy. He’s got a really good chance at beating this. He’s also responding to the fluids and his blood pressure is already stabilizing. We’ll make him as comfortable as possible down here and then move him up to the ICU once a bed becomes available.”

Peter couldn't decide if that meant he was supposed to be optimistic or incredibly worried. But the doctor was right. Neal was young and healthy. If anyone could make it through something like this, it would be him. The man with the 93% conviction rate, who had brought down the likes of Ghvot and Forsythe, no matter how many holes Robert Leech had tried to poke in those accomplishments. 

“Can I see him?”

“Of course you can see him,” Dr. Weiss replied, rising from his chair. Peter followed him out into the hall and back towards the trauma room.

“I’ll be right outside,” Richards informed him when Peter was once again standing in front of the door to Neal’s room. “Call me if you need anything.”

Peter nodded and then forced himself to step inside. The nurse that had taken him to the waiting room was just finishing emptying a syringe into Neal’s IV. “Hydrocortisone for the swelling,” he explained before turning around to start working at a computer sitting on a cart in one corner of the room. Peter tried his best to ignore the man as he hesitated in the trauma room doorway.

Neal’s gurney had been pulled away from the wall slightly and there were monitors and machinery surrounding it. The noises they made created a strange sort of symphony in the crowded room. Peter wondered if Neal would have found the beauty in such a thing. The beep of a heart monitor, the mechanical swish and hiss of the ventilator, and the chirp of the IV stand as it administered its meds. The IV stand in question was near the head of Neal’s gurney - an actual stand, not a wire hanger this time - and heavy with bags of medication and saline. The clear liquids made their way down serpentine lines that disappeared into the IV’s in Neal’s hand and arm. His good arm. The bad one had been stabilized with a temporary cast and was propped up on several pillows. There was a fresh dressing on his shoulder wound, although a splash of blood was coloring the gauze. He suspected, if he ventured over to the other side of the bed, he might even catch a glimpse of the place where they’d placed the chest tube. Entirely uninterested in adding that to the images that were already going to give him nightmares for a week, Peter settled his eyes on Neal’s face instead. 

He took a few tentative steps forward, and then a few more, until he was standing beside Neal’s gurney.

The oxygen mask was gone, obviously, and had been replaced by some kind of contraption that held the ventilator tubing in place. It was blue, just like the delicate tubing that ran from Neal’s slack jaw and over to the machine that controlled it all. His eyes were closed and deeply bruised. Swollen as well. A gift from Smith’s hands, he figured.

Peter looked down at his own hands, uncertain of what he should do with them. To reach out and touch Neal felt wrong, like he might somehow shatter reality or discover that it was nothing more than an illusion and that Neal really wasn’t here. Or that he would grab Neal’s hand and somehow manage to dislodge something and injure the sick man further. He would have given anything in that moment for Neal to just open his eyes, announce himself to be perfectly fine, and that he was ready to go home now.

That’s how Peter would have preferred it. To have called Hughes a moment ago and told him that Neal had been found. A little worse for wear, perhaps, but alive and in good spirits. Grinning like a loon as those SWAT guys gave him their high-fives. 

But not like this. Never like this.

Peter let his hands rest on the rails of the bed. That seemed to be safe enough.

“Neal?” The name felt so strange to say out loud.

Peter could have sworn he saw the barest flash of bloodshot white and a hint of deep blue, but convinced himself a moment later that it was nothing more than his imagination playing tricks on him. After all, Dr. Weiss had explained about keeping Neal sedated for the time being before disappearing into another trauma room. Even so, it gave Peter enough courage to finally take Neal’s hand.

It was warm. So much warmer than Peter was expecting as he held on for dear life.

“It’s ok, Neal,” he found himself saying as he bent low over his friend and touched the side of his bruised and battered face. ”It’s going to be ok. You take all the time that you need. I’ll be right here.” He’d been saying that to so many people lately.

Something wet dripped from the end of Peter’s nose. 

“I’ve got you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For all my fact checkers out there: my sources suggest Neal's bday is 3-21-1977 (that's a day before my own if anyone wants to know :). NOT the same year!) Assuming this story takes place around 2012, I've made his age 35.


	24. I Was Not Brooding

The next two days in the ICU were the longest of Peter Burke’s life. His cell phone didn’t work the best in Neal’s room so there wasn’t much to do but pretend to watch TV or worry about how Diana was getting along at the prison. He’d pretty much left most of that to her, secure in the training she’d received over the years to handle the warden and interrogate Smith. The TV was no help, and he left it off most of the time. 

Diana had booked them into a local hotel and Peter had only been by once to throw the overnight bag he always kept in his trunk onto the bed, spend a few minutes under the weak spray of the shower, and then head back over to the hospital. And the only reason he’d done even that much was because Diana had insisted. So, too, had Richards, who’d promised Peter up and down that neither he nor Barrett would move from their posts beside Neal’s door until he returned. 

And speaking of Neal, there hadn’t been much improvement in his condition. He was getting the strongest antibiotics they had, or so Peter had been told, and the chest tube and ventilator were doing their job. Neal was getting the support he needed, both to breathe and to heal. Only he wasn’t getting any better. Peter spent a lot of his time in Neal’s room just watching the mechanical rise and fall of his friend’s chest. Nurse’s flitted in and out at random, checking vitals that remained shitty yet steady, and changing out the bandages on his shoulder and checking on the dressings around the chest tube. They were as kind as could be to Peter, always taking the time to introduce themselves if they were new, explain Neal’s vitals in a language he could understand, and ask him if he needed anything. Peter always said no. The things he wanted... well, no nurse, no matter how kind, was ever going to be able to give him those.

Neal’s doctors came less frequently, and mostly only during rounds. Peter met a lot of medical professionals over the course of those first few days. Respiratory therapists and orthopedic surgeons, critical care physicians and some doctor called a Hospitalist who was supposed to keep all of Neal’s treatment straight, apparently. Peter liked her most of all. She reminded him of his grandmother and was convinced Neal would feel the same way about her… once he opened those damn eyes of his and woke up, of course. Which felt pretty near impossible right now, considering he was still hooked up to a ventilator and sedated six ways from Sunday. 

Everyone was worried about his throat, and the pneumonia that was clouding his lungs on the x-ray the pulmonologist showed him on the third morning during rounds. Peter had the staff schedule memorized by now and considered himself an expert. He couldn’t help it. It was the FBI agent in him. Or maybe the friend in him that was so worried about Neal he had to fixate on something he could control just to get his mind off the things he couldn’t.

On the morning of the third day, with little improvement or change beyond some promising signs that the antibiotics were finally starting to do their job, Peter decided he’d had enough of the claustrophobic room and needed some air. He left Richards on the door (they were taking it in shifts now, and Barrett had the day off) and headed outside to find a little patio with chairs someone had shown him the other day. It was a nicely terraced courtyard out behind the hospital with a pond that was frozen over and now covered in a dusting of snow. Everything around it was blanketed in white and it was more than a little peaceful. It was heavenly. 

Peter cleared a space for himself on a bench and sat down to look out over the little lake. He wondered how many people just like him had sat in this same spot and done this same thing. How many of them were wondering if their loved ones back in the hospital were going to pull through. Every one of Neal’s doctors was telling him to have faith and that Neal was young and healthy and would pull through this. But they weren’t in that room with him 24/7. They didn’t have to sit there for hours and watch as everything stayed in exactly the same place and nothing ever moved. It was hard to keep faith when Peter kept waiting for the alarms to start blaring and for Neal’s tenuous hold on this life to slip. Something needed to break. And soon.

“I thought I might find you out here.” 

Entirely fed up with people sneaking up on him, Peter refused to turn around. He let whoever it was come to him as he continued to gaze out over the lake. He knew who it was, of course, but held fast to that stubbornness. It felt good. Unexpected. Not that he needed any more unexpected in his life.

Don Murphy sat down on the bench beside him a moment later, right in the snow. Peter hid a smile.

“What are you doing here?” 

He was pretty sure it didn’t sound as harsh as it felt in his head.

“Saving you from yourself.”

“You think I need saving, huh?”

“That, or El might’ve called me.”

“Oh.” 

Because Richards had called Diana and Diana had called Elizabeth and Elizabeth had called Don. It was a conspiracy all over again.

“Well, that and to warn you that we think Park’s on the move again.”

Peter sighed. Of course. Of course Park was on the move.

“And you drove all the way to Pennsylvania to tell me this?” 

The wound on his arm, the one he’d nearly forgotten about before he’d bumped it against the towel rack in the hotel bathroom the other day, throbbed painfully under his sleeve.

“Thought you should know. You’re not that great at picking up your phone these days.”

“You could have called Diana.”  
  
“I didn’t have her number.”

“The office then?” Peter knew he was just being difficult, but he didn’t care.

“We Murphy’s are better enjoyed in person, or so I’ve been told.”

Peter glanced down at his hands with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. His palms were still stained red in places, despite his repeated washings.

“How’s your boy?” Don asked

“The same,” Peter replied, dropping his hands and looking back out over the pond. It was actually big enough to be called a lake, he decided right then. “He’s still really sick, but he’s holding his own.”

“What do his doctors say?"

“That I should stop worrying and let the antibiotics do their job. That as soon as he gets over whatever hump this is, they’ll start weaning him off the ventilator and get that chest tube out of his side. “

“So good news,” Don said hopefully. 

Peter glanced over at his friend. “Well, I guess it’s not _bad_ news.”

The two men sat in silence for a while as they watched a fox make its way across the grounds and start sniffing at the edge of the lake. He was probably looking for food or crack in the ice to drink from. Finding neither, he scampered back off into the trees a few minutes later.

“If you’re blaming yourself, Pete, you should stop,” Don said once the fox had gone and the silence had stretched on for longer than either of them were comfortable with.

Peter chortled. There were plenty of other people he could blame: Leech, Park, Smith, Warden Grant… All of them had a hand in what happened to Neal, but Peter was the one who let the whole thing get set into motion. He was the one who let Leech walk all over him and take Neal in the first place. He deserved the blame. He was to blame, and no detective or fellow FBI agent was going to convince him otherwise. They would try, Diana already had and Don was working on it now, but it was no use. Peter was going to blame himself for this for the rest of his life. Neal could wake up tomorrow, miraculously cured and singing Peter’s praises, and he would still be blaming himself. Not even Elizabeth would be able to make him think otherwise. It was a lost cause.

“So, what makes you think Park is on the move?” he asked to change the subject.

Don was quiet for a moment before answering. “We found one of his victims not far from the state line. That’s why I’m here. They kinda put me in charge of his case. I ran into a few of your guys at the crime scene. Figured, since I was close by and your wife can be very persuasive when she wants to be, I might as well come out here myself and give you a heads up.”

Peter couldn’t help but smile at that as he imagined Elizabeth and Don on the phone, El doing most of the talking as Don sat there listening, knowing he would do exactly what she asked of him. Elizabeth instilled that kind of loyalty and respect in people. Peter included. There wasn’t much he wouldn’t do for her.

“You think he’s headed here?” he asked.

“Seemed like the most logical explanation. It's hard to tell with Park. He’s one of the scary ones. His MO doesn’t always stay the same and you always get the feeling he’s a lot smarter than he lets on.”

“Probably why we haven’t caught him yet.”

“Probably.” Don pulled a big breath in through the nose and then slapped his thighs with his hands. “Anyway, I actually came out here to find you. I met that guard of yours, Ben, in front of Caffrey’s room when I got here.”

“Ben? You mean Richards?”

“Yeah, him. Nice guy,” Don replied. Peter had been here three days so far and he hadn’t even bothered to learn the man’s first name. He’d just been Richards or _that guard_. 

“I brought him up to speed on what’s been going on and he wants to have a little pow-wow about Park. I hope that’s ok,” Don added.

Peter nodded “Yeah, that’s fine. He’s been a big help so far.”

“Sounds like it. He practically interrogated me out in the hall. Made me show him my badge and everything. He even called my supervisor.”

Peter could only imagine what that exchange must have looked like, Richards demanding Don, a grizzled NYPD homicide detective, prove who he was. He was suddenly very sorry he missed it, yet also very surprised to hear his friend talk about it now with such good humor. It was a sign Don really did like the guard.

“Anyway, you ready?” Don asked him. “Or do you need some more brooding time."

“I was not _brooding_ ,” Peter said.

“Then are you done doing whatever it is you call brooding? My ass is getting cold.”

Peter laughed. “Fine. Yes, I’m done.”

He reluctantly said goodbye to his snow covered bench and followed Don back into the hospital. They shook the snow from their boots and then made their way down the confusing hallways and back towards the ICU. The closer they got, the more Peter’s uneasiness of going back into that room grew. It was at war with that other feeling in his chest, the one that started up any time he was away from Neal for any lengthy period of time. When he had to trust that other people would keep him safe while he went off to do the other things that demanded his time. And there were so many things. Phone calls, zoom meetings, check-ins with Diana, meetings with the hospital administration and their reps who were anxious to know when they would get their hospital back from the FBI. His laptop was on its way from New York and once he got that, hopefully things would be a little easier. He could give his vocal chords a rest and let his fingers do the talking. Because he was tired. Restless sleep and uncomfortable hospital chairs had done little to help in that department. He’d even commandeered one of the big reclining ones they used for patients when they were ready to get up out of bed to catch a few Zs in, but it hadn’t helped. His back still hurt and exhaustion was still weighing him down like someone had strapped heavy sandbags to his shoulders. Peter stopped in front of the big restroom outside the ICU and informed Don he needed a few minutes. The detective seemed to understand what he was really after.

“I’m going to go check out the vending machines in the waiting room,” he said. “Take as long as you need.”

Peter pushed in through the door and was relieved to find the place empty. There were a few stalls, a urinal or two, and a bank of three sinks with a large mirror taking up most of one wall. Peter went to the sinks first and activated one of them with his hands. He let a pool of water accumulate in his cupped hands before splashing it over his face. It felt wonderful, yet Peter did not remove his hands from his face. He kept them there, hoping his palms and the water would hide the fact that his emotions were threatening to get the better of him again. He’d tried so hard and for so long to keep it together, but exhaustion and a heightened sense of awareness were difficult things to maintain. They took energy and focus, two things that were in very short supply for Peter. He wasn’t sleeping, the hospital coffee wasn’t cutting it, and Neal just wasn’t getting any better.

Then there was the fact that, every time Peter closed his eyes, images of Neal in his hospital bed accosted him. He couldn’t escape them. They were in his dreams and seared into the blackness behind his eyelids. Neal with the bags of ice tucked around his throat to bring the swelling down. Neal with the congested lungs and low oxygen levels. Even his face and the cuts and bruises his captors had given him seemed to be getting worse as Neal’s damaged body tried so hard to knit itself back together. If this were normal times, Peter might have started jogging. That always helped him clear his mind and look at things from another angle. But there were no other angles here, and no paths to pound down in search of answers. It was either Neal got better or Neal got worse. Everything else was on hold until Peter knew his friend was going to be ok.

The door behind Peter opened and then closed as someone else entered the bathroom. He dropped the hands from his face and reached for a paper towel, catching a glimpse of the man who had entered in the mirror as he did. Peter ignored him as he used the towels to dry off his face. He would wonder later if this was perhaps his biggest mistake. Why he was so distracted when the arm came out of nowhere to wrap itself around his throat and pull him off his feet.

It was a well placed arm, too, cutting off his airway instantly so he couldn’t even breathe or make a sound. The blade that sliced into his lower back - sharp and lethal - and into what he was fairly certain would have been a kidney, sealed his fate. 

Peter tore at the arm around his throat with his blunt nails, desperate to move it so he could breathe again. But his attacker was powerful, and Peter now had something long and sharp protruding from his side. He met the cold, dead, and empty eyes of Jeremiah Park in the mirror.

“Leech sends his regards,” the serial killer smiled as he drove the blade in further. “He says _wrong move_ , by the way. I’ll make sure Caffrey gets the message, too when I gut him next.”

Peter felt the world fading as his lungs burned. If the knife, or whatever Park had used to stab him, didn’t kill him first, the lack of oxygen would. He thought of El.

“Oh the things I’m going to do to that boy,” Park said seductively into his ear. “The parts of him I’m going to Rip off and mail to your boss.” Park twisted his hand and pushed in deeper. Peter’s mouth fell open in a soundless scream. “And then when I’m done with him, I’m going to move on to Jones and then pretty little bitch of yours. You might have been able to protect them from me so far, but not anymore once you're dead. Maybe I’ll even do them at your funeral. Make all those spectators watch. Turn it into a real horror show. Wouldn’t that be poetic?”

Anger set Peter’s blood to boiling. He struggled against Park’s hold, but the man was just too damn strong. And he was slipping. The world had gone grey and he could feel his legs about to buckle. He would lose consciousness soon and then bleed out on the bathroom floor. El would be left alone to fend for herself against a madman. He couldn’t let it happen… but it was getting harder and harder to hold on.

“Hey Petey, when I said take all the time that you need, I didn’t mean...” Peter watched as Don pushed his way in through the bathroom door. The detective’s eyes went wide as he took in the sight of the two men fighting at the sink. 

There was no hesitation in what he did next. No thought, just instinct. He simply dropped the half eaten snickers bar in his hand, reached for his sidearm like he’d probably done a million and a half times before, and put a bullet in Jeremiah Park’s head.

Blood and brains splattered across the floor as the man crumpled and the pressure left Peter’s windpipe. He fell forward, gasping and sputtering as he caught himself on the sinks with one hand. The other went to his back. The object Park had stabbed him with seemed to be some kind of scalpel. It was long and skinny and protruding out several inches. Peter pulled his hand back and was not at all surprised to find it covered in blood. His legs really did buckle then and he left a bloody hand print on the white marble as he fell.

“Pete!” Don exclaimed, catching Peter before his head could hit the floor as he collapsed. The detective lowered him carefully down onto his side, mindful of the scalpel still sticking out of his back. He left Peter there on the floor only long enough to punch at a big red button affixed to the wall beside the paper towel dispenser, just below the words _in case of emergency._ Thank god for hospitals.

“It’s ok Petey. Help is on the way. You just hang in there buddy.”

Don’s face seemed fuzzy and Peter blinked a few times to bring it into focus.

“Eilizabeth,” he choked out.

“Oh no,” Don said, shaking his head. “Don’t you dare start any of that ‘please take care of my wife’ shit with me. You’re going to be fine. It’s just a little stab wound. Nothing to worry about.”

But Peter had seen his fair share of stabbings. In fact, there was a patient in the ICU right now who was a prime example. Blades were unapologetic and Park had gotten Peter in the back. There were not many places back there you could safely stab someone. Not like in the movies. Peter knew it and Don knew it, too. It was only a matter of time.

Peter grabbed the front of his friend’s shirt. “Elizabeth…”

The door to the bathroom burst open and a nurse stumbled into the room. She took one look at Peter and Don on the floor and then hollered something out the door. Peter barely heard.

“El…” he tried again but Don was being pulled away.

“I will, Peter. Whatever you say. Just stay with us!”

He tried. He really did, but when rough hands rolled him over further, the pain was just too much. He lost his grip and slipped away, El’s name still hanging in the air.


	25. Where Else Am I Gonna Be?

_ The mourners all gathered on a Sunday. There was no particular thought given to the day. It was just some random one El picked out of a book.  Excellent choice, they’d said. The ground would be thawed by then. Much easier to bury someone once the earth had been softened by the spring. She’d chosen a day in early summer, when the flowers would be in full bloom and the leaves would be back on the trees. They sang in the wind as the pallbearers walked the casket over from the hearse to the grave. There were other people who could have done this job, but it seemed important that the deceased's friends, the ones who had known him so well, were the ones to set him safely in his final resting place. _

_ “Dearly beloved,” the priest began, his melodic voice carrying on the wind. The attendants bowed their heads reverently. “We are gathered here today to witness the burial of…” _

_ “Oh my god! Did he just move?” someone gasped loudly from the crowd. All eyes fell on a short man with a balding head and thickly rimmed glasses. He was pointing at the casket. _

_ “Mozzie,” someone else warned, elbowing him in the side. _

_ “What? I thought I saw his hand twitch.” _

_ “It's a closed casket! What’s the matter with you!” _

But Elizabeth had had enough. Peter watched as she rose from her seat and stormed over to where Mozzie was sitting. “Mozzie, I swear to god, if you wake him up, I’ll tell all the nurses who you really are.”

“You wouldn’t!” Mozzie exclaimed, a scandalized hand over his heart.

“Try me!”

Peter stirred, struggling to pull himself out of the fog of his strange dreams. His eyelids felt heavier than lead, but eventually he was able to open them.

There were two people standing beside his hospital bed, facing off with each other in some kind of one sided standoff. El had her hands on her hips while Mozzie was cowering under the shadow of her ire. Peter shifted on the bed and Mozzie noticed.

“Oh,” he said with a grimace before shrinking away further. “Sorry Mrs. Suit.”

Elizabeth looked over as well, her face stormy, but all that Mozzie flavored anger seemed to melt away the moment she realized Peter was awake. They locked eyes, each of them smiling in spite of themselves as Mozzie got the hell out of the way.

“Hi hun,” El said as she reached out to gently touch the side of his face with her palm. A moment later she was pressing a kiss to his temple. “Welcome back.”

“What are you doing here, El?” he asked, though perhaps  _ croaked  _ was the better descriptor. His throat felt raw and he nearly choked on the words. El held a straw up to his lips and he pulled on the cool water greedily.

“Well, someone hung up on me before I could tell them I love them the other day, so where else am I going to be?”

Peter blinked up at his wife.

“You got stabbed in the back, Peter,” Elizabeth deadpanned. “That’s what I’m doing here.”

Peter tried to sit up in bed as the memories came flooding back to him all at once, despite the pain meds he was obviously on. A sharp pull in his back stopped him and he fell back against his pillows. He was lying on his side and when he reached around to touch his back, his fingers found thick bandages.

“What happened?”

“You got stabbed with a scalpel and the blade pierced your kidney. The surgeons were able to repair it, but you’re going to be off your feet for a while,” Elizabeth explained.

“And Neal? How long was I out?”

“Mozzie and Don are taking good care of him,” Elizabeth explained patiently. “Relax.”

Peter glanced over his shoulder but Neal’s intrepid sidekick had already gone.

“He’s been very worried about you,” Elizabeth said when she realized who Peter was looking for. “Both of you.”

Peter settled back into his pillows with a wince. “How long was I out?” he asked again.

“Not long,” Elizabeth replied, setting the cup she was holding down onto a table beside Peter’s bed. There was already a bouquet of flowers and a few cards set up there. “It’s Tuesday. You were stabbed yesterday afternoon.”

“And Neal?” Peter had to ask again.

Elizabeth’s face softened as she smoothed the hair back from his forehead with her fingertips. “He’s going to be okay, hun. The doctors say he finally took a turn. They’re already talking about weaning him off the ventilator.”

Peter nodded, fighting hard against the moisture that sat burning at the corners of his eyes. It was difficult, thanks to the drugs, but luckily there was only Elizabeth around to see him struggle with his tear ducts. She had seen him break down plenty of times, and had held him through just as many without judgement. Even when he offered her no explanation for grief that was so strong, it cut a hole in his side and bled him dry.

“I want to see him,” he eventually said.

Elizabeth smiled sadly. “I knew you were going to say that. But you just got stabbed in the back, Peter. You need to rest and recover your strength. Then I promise I will do whatever it takes to convince your doctors to let you go and see him.”

“You don’t understand, El. He can’t wake up in this place without me there,” Peter said, unable to keep the desperation out of his voice. “I need to be there for him.”

Peter tried once again to rise from the bed, but El pushed him back down gently with a hand. “Peter, stop. He’s in good hands and you are injured, too. You’ve got to take care of yourself. I don’t know what I would have done if…” But El couldn’t finish. She didn’t need to. Her face said it all. Peter grabbed for her hand and held on tight.

“Alright, hun. I promise I’ll rest.”

But that promise ended up being one Peter had a very difficult time keeping. With Park no longer a threat and cooling on a slab down in the hospital morgue, things seemed to start moving again. Don left for New York and Mozzie flitted in and out of rooms at random, though no one really knew where he was at any given time. But it was Diana’s visit that changed everything.

Peter spent a lot of time on his side, staring at the wall. It hurt too much to lie on his back so it was really his only option. He heard rather than saw when his agent arrived on the morning of his second day in captivity. Elizabeth’s face lit up and the two women shared a hug before El excused herself to go and get something to eat and Diana took over her chair. The agent took a moment to size him up with a critical eye before speaking.

“Ok?” she asked.

“Ok,” Peter replied. “The doctors say I’ll make a full recovery. They’re already talking about discharging me.”

It could have been a lot worse, but he left that part out. Diana already looked nervous enough.

“Well, I’ve been busy while you two have been laid up,” she said.

“Oh yeah?”

She nodded. “Smith has been arrested. It turns out he’s disappeared more than a few people for his uncle. I uncovered a whole list of names. They had a kind of system set up. Leech had inmates sent over to his nephew’s prison when he felt their crimes were not punished enough and Franklin took care of them. We think that’s how Leech met Jeremiah Park in the early days. Only he let Park go for whatever reason, and kept him on to do his dirty work when his nephew couldn’t get his sadistic hands on them.”

It made sense, in a way, Peter thought to himself. Though why a man like Robert Leech would get in bed with a serial killer like Park was still perplexing to him. Leech had either gotten in way over his head, or Peter had misread the man entirely. Whatever the case, Neal had been the one to pay for it. Leech’s twisted price of freedom. One that could only be paid for in blood and torture and tears. Park had met his demise at the end of a gun. Peter prayed Leech would find his at the end of a hangman’s noose, or in the electric chair. And if that didn’t work, then dying of old age in the same prison he’d sent Neal to would. Wasting away in solitary confinement, alone and forgotten, his nephew one cell over. Those ends certainly justified the means. 

...Or did those thoughts make Peter just as bad as Leech? 

The realization was a sobering one. This wasn’t the kind of person he was, but this case had pushed him so far past his limits, it was no wonder it had changed him. The question was, would Peter ever be able to get over it, and could he change back?

“You alright, boss?” Diana asked and Peter realized he’d gotten lost in his thoughts and stopped listening. He nodded and Diana continued. 

“I was just saying, I’ve got Smith in a holding cell back at the sheriff’s office. We’ve been trying to get him to give up the location of his uncle. No luck yet. But we also have his phone with forensics. He tried to wipe it, of course, but the techs are on it. They’re not as good or as fast as our guys back home, but hopefully they’ll find something soon.

“The warden’s been falling all over himself to help. It only took one call from Hughes. I’ve even been in the cell where they were keeping Caffrey. Not exactly what I would call The Ritz.” Diana paused to shudder. Peter had half a mind to ask her to describe it to him, but was already doing just fine imagining it all on his own.

“Neal is free and clear, by the way,” she went on. “Being transferred under an alias ended up working in our favor. Neal Caffrey has officially been cleared of all charges by the Marshals. He’d be getting released from Rikers and back into our custody right now if none of this ever happened. He’s a free man.”

Peter couldn’t have been happier to hear that news. Neal’s release from prison was not a mess he was particularly looking forward to cleaning up. Thank god for Reese Hughes and good old fashioned scare tactics.

“So all that’s left now,” Diana finished up, “is to track down Leech. And get the two of you better and back home, of course.”

“Have you been in to see him?” Peter asked. “Neal, I mean?”

“Yep, I actually just came from his room. I heard they’re going to try and take him off the ventilator today.”

Peter had been bribing Richards into feeding him information on Neal’s condition since yesterday, but he could tell the time for pleading his case had come. 

But perhaps pleading was not the right word. He was feeling much better and walking just fine on his own up and down the hallways outside his room. Hell, he’d sit in a damn wheelchair if that’s what they wanted. Peter was going to put his foot down and demand to see Neal. He was going to be there at his friend’s side when he woke up, damn it. Park had already stolen away his chance at keeping his promise to always stay by Neal’s side. He wasn’t going to take this from Peter, too. As soon as El got back, he would begin to plead his case.

Lucky for Peter, it wasn’t as big of a fight as he had been expecting in the end. His nurses let him settle himself in a wheelchair, his IV was transferred from the stand near his bed to the chair, and Elizabeth was allowed to wheel him out of his room and over to the ICU where Neal was still being treated; though not for much longer if Diana and Richards’ reports were correct. Now that Neal was stabilized and he was getting ready to come off the vent, they would move him over to a room on another floor. He no longer required the level of care he was receiving in the ICU and this had been music to Peter’s ears. Park was dead. He’d failed in his attempts to kill Peter. Neal had been found and was on the mend. The entire nightmare was coming to an end, albeit a painful, bloody, and bittersweet one. Leech’s freedom was the only thing still souring the pot. But now that Peter had Neal back and could focus on bringing that man down, the bastards days were numbered.

* * *

By the time El wheeled Peter into Neal’s ICU room about 15 minutes later, a little of the excitement at the prospect for seeing his friend again had worn off. Peter was actually a little apprehensive as they neared the little corner room that had been Neal’s since his arrival at the hospital. Elizabeth wheeled him into the room, and the place was just as Peter remembered it. The only addition was Mozzie who moved his chair out of the way so Peter could be wheeled up next to Neal’s bed. Before he could even turn around and ask them for a moment alone with his friend, El was already walking Mozzie out of the room, one delicate arm hooked around his. 

Although Peter had only been away from Neal’s side for a day and a half technically, it felt more like a month. His color had improved and there seemed to be an aura of awareness around him, like he was cognizant of what was going on, and would be awake right now and pitching a fit about being in the hospital, if he wasn’t still sedated. Like the old Neal. Pre-Leech Neal. 

If that man had stolen even an iota of what Neal had once been, Peter really would throw him into that cell and throw away the key. His moral code and sense of justice be damned.

Peter sighed away the intrusive thoughts and reached out a hand to grab one of Neal’s. The rails on the bed were down and it was so nice not to have to reach through bars to touch him this time. There were no longer any barriers between them. No space and no time. No one trying to bust down the doors or haul anyone off to prison. The only man left standing in this whole mess couldn't hurt them anymore. Peter had seen to that. Leech had nothing left to do but run. His assets had been frozen and Peter was trying to convince people that he should be added to the FBI’s most wanted list.

How fitting would that have been? Leech, a wanted criminal, no better than the men and women he’d had transferred over to his nephew’s prison. What was the word Park had used? Poetic? Well Peter figured that word pretty well summed up the entire situation. 

His request would likely be denied, but that sure sure as hell wasn’t going to stop him from trying.

So now all that was left was to get Neal well - and out of this hospital. Peter was already all over that. While he’d been laid up in his own hospital bed, he’d gotten a phone call from someone completely unexpected. And if everything went according to plan, then Neal would be back home in Manhattan in a matter of days. He wasn’t letting himself think about it too much, though - lest he jinx it all and the whole plan fell apart

Peter looked up at Neal’s face again, at the bruising that was only now beginning to lighten, and gently squeezed his hand. 

“Neal?” he called out quietly, desperate for some kind of reaction but still terrified of hurting him further. “Can you hear me, bud?”

Peter’s emotions choked him up as the hand in his squeezed back slightly and Neal’s eyes began to flutter beneath their bruised lids. Peter couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen those eyes open and alert. That morning in the parking garage before the op, he figured. Before Leech and Park and the prison. Back when their lives had been simpler and not some nightmare rollercoaster ride. He knew it was too much to hope that Neal would open those eyes and look over at him now, but the prospect that he might sometime soon was enough to keep Peter hopeful. Something he’d hardly let himself do ever since Neal had gone missing. And maybe even a little while after he’d been found.

But hope was infectious and Peter found himself allowing more and more of it into his heart as the hour when Neal would be taken off the ventilator drew closer.

* * *

True to their word, Neal’s doctors took him off the vent later that day. Peter made sure he was there for all of it. His nurses were understanding and seemed to even enjoy the break while he was away. Elizabeth made sure he was resting and that he got back to his own room in time for shift changes and medications.

Neal wasn’t alert much in the beginning, so Peter didn’t mind the interruptions in his bedside vigils. He only woke sporadically, though Peter was able to catch his eye a time or two while Neal struggled to pull himself out of the haze of sickness and drugs. 

And sick he still was. His recovery was not going to be an easy one, or a quick one for that matter. Probably more so than any of the gathered visitors at his bedside realized. None of them had been on that bridge with him or down in that cell. There could be ramifications to what Leech had done that stayed with Neal forever. Peter would help him of course, but there was this tiny little part inside of him that worried Neal would never be the same again. That the carefree boy with the winning smile would come out the other side of this a broken man. Maybe even broken enough to not want to come back to White Collar. Peter tried not to think about that one possible outcome too much. They would get Neal better physically first, and then tackle those other issues later. They were treating the pneumonia before the broken arm, just like his doctors. It seemed like a good plan. 

For now at least.


	26. Forgiveness

People would ask him later if he remembered anything from his time in the ICU. Oftentimes he would invent some story, depending on his audience, about the things he imagined might have happened while he was unconscious and on the ventilator. But the truth was, Neal remembered very little after getting stabbed by Forsythe in the prison yard. In fact, when he awoke one day in the ICU and found that he could think clearly for the first time in days, and actually keep his eyes open for longer than 30 seconds, he almost started looking around to make sure Forsythe wasn’t lurking in some corner and ready to try again. He wasn’t, of course. There was only Peter, and he was hardly lurking. In fact, he was fast asleep in a wheelchair not far from the side of Neal’s bed.

Willing his heavy eyelids to stay open, and fighting against the unimaginable exhaustion that seemed to have settled into his very bones, Neal blinked his handler into better focus. Peter really was seated in a wheelchair, and he realized this with that sudden clarity that often came to those who were getting the  _ really  _ good drugs. And not the kind meant to subdue. No, these were the kind meant to take his pain away and make him as comfortable as possible. And sweet Jesus was he comfortable at the moment. This is what it should have been like as soon as they got him situated in the prison infirmary…

But Neal wasn’t ready to think about those things yet, and went back to analyzing Peter. The FBI agent was dressed in a hospital gown, and this captured Neal’s attention more than anything else. Made him really focus and realize Peter’s arm was wrapped in a bandage, too, and that there was an IV affixed to the back of the hand he was using to prop his head up. His elbow was perched precariously close to the edge of the chair’s arm and looked to be in danger of sliding off and startling Peter awake. Neal considered saying something, but judging by the ache in his throat and the oxygen mask that was still covering his nose and mouth, he probably wouldn’t have been able to. Besides, lying there just enjoying the sight of his friend - the Real Peter, not Hallucination Peter - sleeping there beside his bed, was just fine with him.

Neal relished it, just like he relished the softness of the bed beneath him, the blankets keeping him warm, and the absence of that raging fever. The cleanliness of the room and the gown he was dressed in. The fluffiness of the pillows behind his head and the deliciousness of the feel of the drugs. This was no shoddy prison infirmary. He wasn’t Smith’s punching bag any more. It was over. Peter was here and he had been rescued. The long years of his life were no longer stretched out before him in a long line of never ending torture and helplessness. He was free.

Mustering up his strength, Neal put all his breath behind a name he never thought he’d ever get to utter again.

“Peter?” 

It came out no louder than a whisper, but Peter heard. Of course he heard. His elbow slipped from the arm of the chair and he came awake with a hiss and a wince. Neal noticed, and he would have said something about it too, had his lungs not chosen that exact moment to remember how very, very sick he still was. A cough ripped through his chest, tightening the invisible bands around his lungs that refused to let them expand again. Neal fisted his hands in the blankets as the sudden and violent movement reactivated every hurt that was still present in his body. It was an agony that pain meds could never even hope to touch, not if they were the strongest in the world. Oxygen was a distant memory as he fought for a deep breath that he knew would never come. Through his tears he could see Peter frantically pressing the call button and trying to wheel himself towards the door as alarms screeched and monitors blared. A nurse was at his side a moment later. 

“Just breathe Neal,” she said in a calm, steady voice. “You’ve got this. Slow and steady breaths. In and out. You’re fine. Just take it slow.” A straw was pressed to his lips and Neal took a tentative sip as the coughing fit began to subside. “There you go. You’ve got this.”

He fell back against his pillows, sweaty and entirely spent. He tried to keep his eyes open, to tell Peter that he was okay again and the worse was over, but his exhaustion was no longer a beast he could tame and Neal tumbled head first back into dreams.

When he was aware again, Peter was still beside his bed, though the light in the room was different. His only window was filled with afternoon sunlight, bits of it sneaking in through the blinds and splashing lines of light onto the curtains that covered the glass door to his room. Peter wasn’t sleeping this time, but rather having a heated discussion with Mozzie over some TV program. Neal’s oldest friend seemed to sense that he was awake and nudged Peter with an elbow when he realized Neal was watching them. The agent looked over from his wheelchair and his tired eyes lit up like a christmas tree. Neal couldn’t help but smile back. It had been far too long since someone had looked at him like that. A moment with another human being where there wasn’t a fist following right after. Peter looked away rather quickly and shared a knowing look with Mozzie.

“Oh, I just remembered. I have a date with the hospital security system. I’ll be back later,” he said before ducking out of the room. He stopped beside Neal’s bed first, touching his arm and promising with a look that he would be back and that they would catch up for real. Neal smiled tiredly as his friend disappeared out into the hall.

Peter wheeled himself closer over to Neal’s bed, his head down and shoulders stooped. He looked like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulder and Neal wanted to tell him to stop. That he was ok and would get back to full fighting strength again soon. He also had a million and a half questions, but his throat literally felt like raw meat that had just been sent through a grinder and exhaustion tugged on his eyelids relentlessly. This conversation was going to be hard on them both, but Neal could sense it was something that had to be done. As much for Peter’s sake as for his.

“I got you something at the hospital gift shop,” Peter said, reaching over to retrieve a white paper bag off the rolling table beside Neal’s bed. He reached inside and came out with a small dry erase board, complete with black marker and a little eraser. It pulled another tired smile from Neal. 

“I figured your throat would be sore for a while, and considering what happened last time you tried to talk to me...”

Neal sheepishly took the board from Peter, remembering exactly what happened last time he’d tried to call out the man’s name. His IV line made it cumbersome work to uncap the marker, but eventually he got it and started writing. It was embarrassing how much his hand shook and how sloppy his lettering was, but he really only had one major question to ask.

_ What happened to you? _

Peter glanced down at himself.

“Park,” was all he said. Neal raised his eyebrows.

“Yeah, I guess you weren’t around for that part,” Peter sighed, looking up again. “Jeremiah Park is - or was, rather - one of the men Leech sent after you on the bridge. The one who didn’t get hit by the truck.”

Neal nodded and then waited for Peter to continue.

“He’s on one of our Most Wanted lists, Neal. A serial killer we’ve been looking for for a long time.”

Neal replaced a word on the board and held it up.

_ What happened to Jones?” _

“He’s fine Neal. He got a pretty good conk on the head, and it took him a while to remember what happened, but he’s ok and on the mend.”

_ “And you?” _ Neal wrote before pointing to the bandage on Peter’s arm.

“Park again,” he replied. “He shot at me and Mozzie while we were meeting up a few days ago. And then I met him again in the hospital bathroom before you woke up.” Peter stopped there but Neal could tell there was more to the story. The wheelchair and hospital gown were a dead giveaway, though the IV was gone now.

“He attacked me. I got a scalpel in the back.”

Neal dropped the board, his eyes going wide. “Peter,” he managed to whisper, though his throat protested and he had to take a sip of water from the glass that was held out to him a moment later.

“I’m fine,” the agent promised once Neal was done. “He got me in the kidney but the docs were able to repair everything with no problems. In fact, they’re discharging me today. That’s how much of a non-issue it is.”

Neal doubted that Peter’s doctors - or his wife for that matter - would agree, but he allowed it. He picked his board back up, erased his last question and wrote another.

_ “What happened to me?” _

Peter squinted at the words and then sighed again. He set the cup he’d grabbed for Neal back on the cart, wincing when he had to twist in his chair every so slightly.

“Robert Leech is what happened.”

Neal listened closely as Peter started from the beginning and took him through everything that had happened after his jump from the bridge. He explained Leech and his motives, how all of this had stemmed from some heist Neal had helped on so many years ago. A heist he barely remembered yet which ended up being the catalyst for Peter being recruited by White Collar to track him down. About how Leech’s twisted sense of justice had transformed him into the very thing he loathed - a criminal and a murderer. He might not have pulled the trigger or plunged in the blade, but he certainly ordered it. Peter brought him all the way up to when they had searched the correctional facility and found him in the prison infirmary but seemed unable to go any further. Neal had no real memories from after getting shivved in the prison yard, but he’d learned a lot from his doctors and nurses. They explained it all while running their cognitive tests to make sure he hadn’t suffered any brain damage after Smith tried to strangle him to death. So far no one seemed to be worried and Neal didn’t feel like there was anything wrong. His brain was working just fine, despite the fact that he was still incredibly sick and tired all the time.

And speaking of brains, Neal’s was certainly firing on enough cylinders to realize that Peter was blaming himself - and for everything. Only Neal didn’t have the voice or the strength yet to explain how he was feeling to his friend. How he knew Peter had done everything he could to get him released from the Marshals and how none of this, not one bit of it, was his fault. There was no hate or resentment in Neal’s heart towards the man, something he desperately wished he could communicate to Peter in that moment. So he did the next best thing. He set the whiteboard down on the bed over his legs and reached out an IV’d hand to his friend.

Peter just stared at it for a moment. It was Neal’s peace offering, and Peter seemed to understand that. He also seemed to be having a difficult time taking it. Neal flipped his hand over, palm up. He was offering Peter forgiveness, an invitation for both of them to start healing and putting this all behind them. Putting out the promise that he was ok and would work his ass off to get better, and that Peter was free from blame and still his friend. 

The hand sat there suspended in the space between the two men for what felt like an eternity, both of them hurting and in pain. One willing to forgive and work to forget, the other wondering if he deserved such a gift. 

Neal tried to communicate everything through his eyes as Peter looked up at him from his wheelchair. Their shared history was laid out in the space between them. A cavernous crack in the land that some outside observer might think was insurmountable, regardless of how close the two men were to each other physically. All the long years of working together, trusting each other, letting each other down but then finding one another again, always accepting each other back after the dust settled and the smoke cleared - all of it was laid bare in a moment of devastating vulnerability.

Peter looked back down at Neal’s hand which had begun to tremble with the effort of keeping it out. He took it with one of his cold hands and then wrapped the other on top, covering the evidence of Neal’s IV so it was just the two of them for a moment. No reminder of what they’d just been through. Just Peter and Neal and a friendship that was strong enough to stand the test of time and men like Robert Leech.

It was over. All of it. They would take Leech down together, be the final nails in his coffin and then begin the business of healing. Together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may or may not have made myself cry like a baby while writing this chapter. I may or may not also think it's sappy as hell. But sometimes sappy is good. I hope this is one of those times :)


	27. Home

On Neal’s first day in a regular room on a regular ward, he had a visitor no one was expecting. Well maybe Peter, though he did a pretty good job of hiding the fact he knew exactly what was going on. 

The agent in question was reading a book while Neal and Mozzie played cards. The TV was on in the background, though no one was really watching. Neal kept the TV on a lot these days. He welcomed the distraction and the noise. The vibrant colors that were so different from the drab, institutional grey that had been his life for so long. The sound was horrible, and came from the little speaker on his call button, but the tinny noise and pointless plots were nice distractions from the horrible breathing exercises the nurses made him do. Sometimes Neal just wanted to lay there and do nothing. Just watch people walk past his door or listen to Mozzie go on about how he was worried he hadn’t erased himself from the hospital security system entirely. Neal always loved it when Mozzie went off on that particular tangent. Especially when Peter, the hardened FBI Agent, tried not to act like Mozzie’s extracurricular activities weren’t bothering him. Or extremely illegal.

June breezing into the room, bringing with her memories of home and his own space, was probably the best get-well gift anyone could have given him. The news she brought with her was even better.

“We’re taking you home, Neal,” she announced, her heavy jewelry twinkling in the light as she clasped her hands together in excitement.

Neal nearly dropped the royal flush he’d been carefully cultivating while Mozzie and Peter had been arguing the finer points of identity theft.  _ “What was that again?” _

His voice was a lot stronger now, though still a bit gravely. His lung capacity was getting better by the day and his coughing fits no longer felt like the end of the world when they overtook him. His evil nurses liked to take credit for that. Ok, maybe they weren’t evil, they were actually incredibly nice, but that heinous contraption they always brought with them to help strengthen his lungs sure was. They called it a Spirometer, or something like that, and everyone was obsessed with him using it. It was sitting on the little rollaway table beside his bed even now, mocking him.  _ Get the damn ball higher _ , they always said.  _ Blow harder, Neal. Come on, you can do it. _ But evil nurses and sadistic medical equipment aside, there was no denying that Neal was on the mend.

“I’ve worked it all out with your doctors,” June explained, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “There’s an ambulance waiting for you down in the ER. Whenever you’re ready they can take you back to New York. You just say the word.”

Neal could hardly believe his ears. But why was he even surprised? This was just the kind of thing his friends… no, his  _ family  _ would do. He felt his cheeks redden.

“But how?”

“Turns out it’s actually pretty easy,” Peter replied, all but admitting to his involvement. “We just had to get June’s doctor in Manhattan to agree to bring you under his care and set up the transfer. The docs here will get us a copy of your medical records and then we’re ready to go.”

“That fast?” Neal asked.

“That fast,” Peter replied.

Neal smiled. “What hospital will I go to?”

June’s eyes glittered again. “That’s the rest of my good news. There will be no more hospitals for you, my dear. I’ve had the entire bottom floor of the east wing converted into our own little mini-hospital. You’ll have around the clock nursing care and my personal physician will be at our beck and call.”

Neal was once again at a loss for words, which was a pretty big deal for him. He felt his eyes fill with moisture, though he tried to ignore it and carry on like he wasn’t about to start crying in front of everyone.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said wetly.

“What good is money and influence if you don’t spend it on those you love?” June replied with a smile. Neal had some pretty good ideas, but kept them to himself, especially when Peter shot him a warning look.

_ I know what you’re thinking, Caffrey. Keep your trap shut. _ It was a very FBI look.

June moved in and then suddenly Neal was being enveloped in her strong arms. He stiffened at first when images of Smith coming at him tried to invade the moment, but he forced them aside and hugged back before June could pull away again. He closed his eyes, reveling in the feel of comfort freely given. He didn’t care that it pulled at his surgery stitches or made his broken arm ache. This was no beating at the hands of Smith or a morally bankrupt guard looking the other way while he was essentially tortured for days on end in a solitary confinement cell. This was friendship. This was home. June was all the things that Robert Leech and his demented family were not. She used her powers for good and Neal knew how incredibly lucky he was to have her on his side. All of them, really. Every single person who helped track him down and never gave up. He would thank each of them. While Peter was busy enacting his revenge on all the villains of their story, Neal would be seeking out the heroes. The ones who gave enough of a damn to stand up for him and say no. To fight for him in the way none of the other people he’d met over the past month had. It wasn’t how he normally did things, and maybe it was just the loopiness of the drugs making him feel this way, but there was no denying this entire debacle had changed him. And he wouldn’t be spending his energy focusing on the bad. Like any good con, he would take the cards he’d been dealt and talk his way out of the rest. That was a skill no one had been able to beat out of him, not even Robert Leech. The one they could never take from him, no matter how hard they tried.

Neal swiped at his eyes as June pulled away. It was no use. The front of her blouse was damp with his tears. No one would miss the evidence of his emotion. Damn, stupid, wonderful drugs. 

“When can I leave?” he asked after wiping his nose with the tissue Mozzie discretely passed him.

“Any time you want,” June replied.

“Is now too soon?”

“Absolutely not,” June laughed in that musical way of hers. “I can go talk to your doctors right now, if that’s what you really want.”

“That’s what I really want,” Neal replied eagerly and everyone in the room laughed. 

The laughter seemed to break apart the gloom that had been hanging around Neal’s space for days. Had he been a sappy schmuck, he might have made some joke about there being no place like home. Instead, he settled on showing Mozzie the royal flush he’d been hiding and sliding the little pile of M&Ms they were playing with over to his side of the table.

If Mozzie suspected subterfuge, he didn’t say anything.

* * *

True to her word, June got right on Neal’s transfer. 

One wave of that magic wand of wealth and influence of hers and Neal was being loaded into the back of an ambulance, a CD of his medical records tucked under one of his legs. A recently released Peter came with him, though there wasn’t much for the poor guy to do beyond watch him sleep. Neal did so much of that lately, but it was necessary. His body was working hard to heal itself and that meant as much rest as possible. 

He had meant to take advantage of their time alone to talk some things over with Peter, but the gentle rocking of the ambulance soon lulled him to sleep.

His dreams were strange. Drugs often did that to him. He awoke with a start several times, unsure if the screams echoing around the ambulance were from him or just in his head. His eyes would always fly open just as Smith’s cold hands wrapped around his throat again and he was convinced he could no longer breathe. 

But Peter was always there, his concerned face replacing the nightmarish images in Neal’s head until they faded away and reality firmly established itself again. The agent’s calm, low voice soothing Neal away from the brink of panic and back into sleep with gentle words. The process repeated itself several times until the ambulance finally pulled up in front of June’s. 

Cold air smacked Neal in the face when the back doors were flung open, but the cold didn’t make him cough this time. The urge was there, but it let him decide whether or not it would overtake him. He let it a little, but also didn’t let it deter him from summoning up the strength - or the courage, really - to make a rather unorthodox request of Peter and his paramedics.

Neal’s ambulance was a private one specifically hired by June. The paramedics reminded him more of linebackers than actual medics and they lifted his gurney out of the back of their rig with practiced ease. Once he was firmly back on solid ground, Neal plucked up the courage to make his request.

The paramedics said no right away. Peter just looked at him like he was nuts, but Neal was not about to back down. Not on this. It was something he had to do.

“We’re twenty feet away from the front door,” he argued with his handler, who was already shaking his head.

“We could be on the stoop right now and the answer would still be no, Neal. It’s not gonna happen.”

“Please, Peter?” he begged, hating how whiny and tired he sounded. “I was walking laps around that nurses station the other day, you saw me! Nothing’s going to happen!”

His handler still looked entirely unconvinced. “You’re not even wearing a coat. What if you get sick again?”

“It is a scientifically proven fact that cold does not make you sick. I’ve got my oxygen. I can do this.”

Night had begun to fall on the familiar street June’s stately mansion called home. The streetlamps were already lit and bathed everything in pools of soft, yellow light. The street was occupied by the ambulance and several other vehicles that looked a lot like unmarked cop cars to Neal. His protection detail, no doubt. 

“I’m perfectly safe. All I’m asking is that you let me walk up the stairs rather than have these two chuckleheads carry me up.” 

He winced at the paramedics. “No offense guys.”

“None taken,” one of them mumbled, clearly offended.

“No, Neal,” Peter said. “It’s not a good idea. You’re all hooked up to everything anyways.”

The front door to June’s house opened and a nurse appeared on the threshold in lavender scrubs.

Neal pointed over at her, “You see? The nurse is right there. She can supervise and everything.” Neal dropped his hand before Peter could see it had begun to tremble. 

“Please Peter, you’ve got to let me do this.”

Peter continued to eye him skeptically. Neal needed to figure out a way to explain how very important this moment truly was without embarrassing the hell out of himself. To convey to his friend just how frustrating and difficult these past few weeks had been for him. Every decision on someone else’s terms. Every action dictated by others. Even in the hospital where he was supposed to be safe and free, it had continued. Neal needed a moment, just one damn thing to make him feel alive again, like he was in control of his own destiny. And if that was walking up the steps and into June’s house on his own two feet, rather than being carried in, and despite the protestations of his paramedics, then so be it.

“I need this,” he said, trying to convey it all without words.

Peter looked over at the nurse and then back to the medics. They seemed to be having some sort of nonverbal spar that finally ended with one paramedic shrugging to the other and Peter heaving a dramatic sigh. 

Neal got his answer a moment later when the burlier of the two began unhooking the straps securing him to the gurney. Peter procured his coat from somewhere and wrapped it around Neal’s shoulders as he sat up. It was warm, as if the agent had been holding it close the entire ambulance ride. It was also an article of clothing Neal never expected to see again, as he was fairly certain he’d left it dangling off some fence back on top of the Brooklyn Bridge.

Once all the straps were off and the IV lines were pushed to the side, Neal swung his legs over the gurney, and with a little help from his paramedic friends, stood up. His skid proof socks did little to combat against the frigid sidewalk, but Neal welcomed the cold. It was different. Not the musty dampness of his cell or the frigid spray of the prison showers. This was a cold he could live with.

Leaning heavily on Peter for support, the two men slowly made their way over to the steps leading up to the house. They were very shallow, otherwise Neal imagined Peter would have put an end to this little plan of his in an instant - a plan he was seriously doubting himself as he gazed up the ten or so stairs he was about to climb. It suddenly felt as daunting as summiting Everest.

The nurse in the lavender scrubs was waiting for them in the doorway, wringing her hands nervously.

“Do you want some help?” she called out.

Peter glanced over at Neal. “How about it? Do we need any help?”

Neal shook his head.

“I think we’ve got this,” Peter replied back.

To prove his point, Neal lifted a foot and pulled himself up onto the first concrete step. It left him immediately winded and Peter paused.

“You don’t have to do this,” his friend reminded him quietly, concern etched into his face so deeply, Neal worried it might stay there, even after all this was over. “You made it from the gurney to the stairs. That can be enough.”

So maybe Peter really did understand.

But Neal knew he couldn’t give up now. Not when he was already so close.

What he’d said before was true. He needed this, especially with the indignities he knew he would have to face in the coming months. How hard he would have to work just to be allowed to make his own decisions, or find a modicum of privacy. The people he loved would try to force him back into that solitary confinement cell all over again. They wouldn’t mean to, or probably even realize they had done it, but it would happen. Neal would do his best to endure it, because it would be done out of love - and for his own good, or so they would say - but that wouldn’t make it hurt any less. He had to do this. He needed something of his own to hold on to. To get him through the unbearable bits yet to come. 

Neal straightened, his paramedics hovering just behind, and turned his face into the wind. It brought him smells of Central Park and a hint of the subway. It also gave him the last little bit of determination he needed to start up the stairs again. 

Peter was a warm and constant presence at his side and did not leave him until Neal all but collapsed into the wheelchair that was waiting for him on the stoop. The medical paraphernalia he’d left Pennsylvania with was reattached as he tried to catch his breath and slow down his heart rate. 

“That might just be the stupidest thing I’ve ever let you talk me into,” Peter muttered as he grabbed the back of Neal’s chair and started wheeling him out of the foyer. The nurse and the paramedics stayed behind to swap paperwork and vitals. 

But Neal was hardly paying attention to Peter anymore. As his chair cleared the corridor and he was pushed out into the main part of the house he was too busy trying to pick his jaw back up off his lap and remember how to breathe. 

Any snarky comeback he might have had for his handler died in his throat as the full weight of the realization of where he was finally descended on him. 

Neal was  _ home _ . The one place he never let himself hope to see again, just in case the universe was listening and decided he didn’t deserve it. 

Home, with its comfortable furnishings and familiar light.

Neal let fingertips brush against tabletops and knick knacks as they continued on deeper into the house. June’s things. His things now, too. Because even though he was only just a guest in this house, it had always felt like home. 

As Peter pushed him towards the rooms that would be his home for the next however many weeks, Neal found himself trying to take in as much of his surroundings as possible. Commit it all to memory before the exhaustion and pain could creep up on him again and steal his focus. They were already trying to move in. Like predators they stalked him, lurking in the tall grass and promising to make him pay for that little stunt he pulled on the stairs. 

By the time Peter helped him into bed, he was trembling. 

June had been telling the truth. The east wing really had been converted into a little mini-hospital, though this one was far more luxurious than any hospital Neal had ever been in. He studied the machinery tucked up against the walls, some of it still in its shrink wrap, as he settled in. June had even decorated the space with some of his favorite paintings from around the house. A few of his own had been thrown into the mix as well. For some strange reason, it made him blush. 

“What is it?” Peter asked, immediately picking up on his discomfort as they worked together to untangle his IV lines. “Are you ok?”

“It’s nothing,” Neal replied.

But Peter was giving him that look and Neal knew he was going to have to give the man a real answer. Or at least one he thought was real. 

Neal found himself too exhausted to lie.

“All this,” he explained, gesturing towards the art on the walls and the expensive equipment stacked in the corners. “It’s all too much.” 

_ And I’m terrified someone is going to realize I don’t deserve it and send me back to prison, _ but he left that part out.

“Not for June it isn’t,” Peter said as he finally got the IV situated and pulled Neal’s blankets up and over him. The bed was beyond comfortable and there were more buttons along the side rail than Neal knew what to do with. He would play around with them later when he wasn’t so damn tired.

Neal let his head fall back against the fluffy pillows and tried to push intrusive thoughts away. He was home and no one was talking about prison, at least not yet. He was going to focus on getting better. The rest could wait for another day.

“How’s the pain?” Peter asked as Neal finally began to relax. 

He gave an honest answer. “It’s getting worse.”

And it was. His shoulder was the worst culprit these days, thanks to the surgery they’d performed on it a few days before he left the hospital. The coughing fits never did it any favors, nor did the strain of having to use it to move the cumbersome permanent cast now encasing the lower half of his arm. 

He’d gotten lucky with that arm. The break wasn’t all that bad, despite Smith’s best efforts, and had not required any hardware to repair. Just a cast, and Neal could live with that. He would take the pain if it meant no awkward encounters with frisky TSA agents at airports going forward. In his line of work, being invisible was imperative and one never knew when one might have to fall back on old ways. And how horrible would it be if he had to deal with setting off the metal detectors for the rest of his life? Mozzie would probably disown him if they had to put screws, or god forbid, a metal plate in his arm. 

Normally keeping his casted arm in a sling helped with the shoulder, but his trip up the stairs had burned through the cushion of the pain medication. He was feeling everything now. Hurts that had been quiet for days were as intrusive as those unwanted thoughts about being a burden. He felt weighed down and oh so tired. His eyelids slipped closed as Peter’s hand appeared on his good shoulder.

“You rest,” his handler said, preternaturally picking up on his exhaustion just like he had Neal’s earlier discomfort. They were spending far too much time together. Not that Neal was complaining. “I’m going to go talk to that nurse of yours and see about more pain meds.”

The last thing Neal wanted to do after coming home for the first time in a month was sleep, but it was calling to him like the deck of Juniper, so seductive and so sweet. 

“Peter,” he said just as his handler reached the door. The agent turned back around, his silhouette framed in light as the overhead lights dimmed.  “Thank you.”

Peter was quiet for a moment before saying, “You’re welcome… partner.”


	28. The Business of Healing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a few changes on the story. There are going to be 30 chapters and one of the chapters isn't quite finished yet. I will try my darnedest to get it ready for posting tomorrow!

Peter made himself pretty scarce for a few days after that and Neal tried not to fault him for it. The agent had his own life and his own affairs to put back in order, though Neal did miss his constant companionship. But he had other visitors. Mozzie stopped by every day and Elizabeth kept bringing him doctor approved meals on shrink wrapped china, much to the chagrin of the cook. June was always there of course, as were the countless other visitors who wanted to stop by and see how Neal was doing; agents from White Collar, old friends from the early days, and even a few new ones. Though with Leech still on the loose, not many of them made it past the front doors.

But even if visitors had been allowed, Neal wasn’t sure he would have wanted to see anyone. He’d spent nearly a week in that windowless solitary confinement cell, yet the mere thought of visitors, with their empty platitudes and banal small talk, exhausted the hell out of him. It took all his energy these days just to stay awake long enough to make it through the grueling physical therapy sessions. Let alone accept visitors all hours of the day.

Just because Neal was no longer in the hospital, that didn’t mean his treatment had stopped. June had hired all manner of specialists and doctors to oversee his care at home. Some days it felt like he was still back in that hospital in Pennsylvania. There were two nurses on shift at all times and they rotated out every 12 hours or so. His main physician had rounds every morning at the house, just like back in Pennsylvania. The constant stream of people through his room was enough. He didn’t need the added stress of holding a coherent conversation with some well-wisher thrown on top of all that. Once he recovered his strength and Robert Leech was behind bars, well then Neal would welcome them all gladly. Elizabeth had even promised to throw him a little Welcome Home bash to soothe any bruised egos or hurt feelings his acquaintances might have felt.

Between the exams by the doctors, therapy sessions for his lungs, arm and shoulder, Neal found himself craving the quiet times when it was just him and Mozzie. His old friend had taken to bringing the newspaper along with him on visits and reading aloud to Neal. He had every distraction he could want in the room with him; a humongous flat screen taking up most of one wall, an old transistor radio of Byron’s, and his laptop. But Smith had left him with more than just flashbacks and a broken arm. The guy had also managed to fracture the occipital bone around Neal’s right eye. Reading on his own often triggered migraines so he was more than happy to lay quietly in bed while Mozzie read. Listening to someone else talk meant he didn’t have to think about the other things that waited for him in the dark. The ones that snuck up on him when everyone had gone and Neal was left alone.

Sometimes when the newspaper got too depressing, Mozzie would read from The New Yorker. He and Neal were in the middle of a conversation about one of the political cartoons when June knocked on the door.

“There’s a letter here for you, Neal,” she said, holding up a thin envelope. But when Neal reached out to take it, she hesitated.

“What? Who’s it from?”

“It’s from a prison in Pennsylvania,” she explained and Neal dropped his hand.

“Why don’t I take that,” Mozzie suggested, and June handed it over.

“I think I’ll leave you two gentlemen alone,” she said, exiting the room just as quickly as she had arrived.

Neal watched as Mozzie tore open the envelope and then began to read. The further down the page he got, the more his eyes narrowed.

“Well, it’s from Richards,” he eventually said, holding the paper up to the light as if he were looking for hidden clues. “Do you want to read it?”

Neal frowned. What could that man possibly want from him now?

“What does he say?”

Mozzie was quiet for a moment. “Against my better judgement, I must insist you read it for yourself.”

Mozzie held out the letter which had been hastily scribbled onto paper Neal was all too familiar with. He’d penned endless missives himself onto paper just like it. It was standard issue to all incarcerated prisoners.

So Richards had been arrested. Interesting. He would have to remember to talk to Peter about what happened.

“I could always burn it,” Mozzie suggestested when Neal remained silent, his eyes sparkling conspiratorially behind his thick glasses. 

Neal had half a mind to just tell him to go ahead. But he also was incredibly curious about the contents of the letter now. The con man in him just couldn’t let this one lie.

Neal took the letter, and Mozzie rose from his chair. “I think I’m gonna go rustle us up some grub.”

Neal waited until the door closed behind his friend to look down at the letter again. He was probably going to pay for reading it with a headache later, but he decided it was worth the risk.

> _ Dear Mr. Caffrey, _
> 
> _ If you’re reading this then I guess it means you haven’t torn this up or burnt it already. I wouldn’t blame you if you had. I imagine a letter from me is the last thing you expected, or even wanted for that matter. _
> 
> _ I’ve been arrested. I plan to plead guilty and to do my time. If they ever let me out of here, I’m going to see if I can get a job with this nonprofit I heard about. They work with inmates who’ve been wrongfully accused. I know that hardly makes up for what I did to you or the mistakes I made, but I figured it was a start at least. _
> 
> _ I also know I’m the last one you want to hear this from, but I really am sorry. I will never forgive myself for what I did to you. What I let Smith do to you. I know I deserve to burn in hell for what happened. There’s no excuse and nothing I can ever say to fix any of it. I deserve prison and will spend the rest of my days trying to atone for my sins. _
> 
> _ If you can ever find it in your heart to forgive me, I hope you will, or at least find some comfort in knowing this has changed me forever and I will do everything I can to make amends and do better. _
> 
> _ I wish you luck and a quick recovery, Neal. _
> 
> _ Yours, _
> 
> _ Ben Richards _

Neal set the letter down onto the bed beside his legs and tried to decide how he felt about what he’d just read. He hadn’t thought much about Richards or the prison lately. Those memories stayed away for the most part, and only really came back to him in his dreams. He got around that by tiring himself out as much as possible during the day so he slept like the dead at night. But sooner or later Neal knew he was going to have to face them. Come to terms with what had been done and get to a place where the memories no longer haunted him. Where he could think back on them but not relive them. But he wasn’t ready, not yet, but now Richards’ letter was bringing it all back up. 

Neal let the head of his bed down with the press of a button and turned over onto his good side so he could stare at the wall with his back to the rest of the room. Richards didn’t deserve his forgiveness. The man’s crimes were just as heinous as Smith’s and Leech. His silence had nearly cost Neal his life. So how could he now ask Neal to forgive and forget? 

Richards’ only redeeming quality was that he had not been working with Leech and had pulled Smith off of him back in the prison infirmary. He might not have signed the paperwork, stabbed Neal in the shoulder, or beat him up, but he sure as hell was responsible for allowing it all to happen. For turning a blind eye. How much pain and misery would he have saved Neal if he just would have listened. Let Neal make one little phone call. That’s all it would have taken to keep him out of the hospital and off life support. 

The man who had written the letter was a coward, and there was no morphine softening the edges of Neal’s feelings towards him now. Ben Richards did not get to be one of the heroes of this story. A villain on the path of redemption… not even that was an option to Neal at the moment. As far as he was concerned, Ben Richards deserved what he got.

Maybe someday down the road, when his wounds knit back together and his mind healed, Neal would find it in his heart to forgive the man, but for now the hate was just too strong. His thirst for vengeance, too great. Neal had never been one to hold a grudge, but then again, he’d never been held against his will or tortured for days on end while someone sat idly by and watched it happen. 

As Neal lay curled up on his side, staring at the wall and trying to push away all those memories of his time at that prison, he decided he would hate Ben Richards and Frank Smith for the rest of his life.

Mozzie returned a short time later. Neal feigned sleep, even though he knew his friend would see right through the ruse. He stood beside Neal’s bed for the longest time. Probably trying to decide if it was worth asking Neal if he wanted to talk about it. Neal didn’t want to talk , and stayed on his side, praying Mozzie would get the hint and just leave him the hell alone.

He did and a moment later he was back in his chair. There was the distinct sound of rustling pages and then Mozzie began to read again. It was an older volume neither of them had heard of before by some obscure French author. Mozzie read it aloud in its native language and Neal fell asleep to the flowing rhythms of his friend’s near perfect pronunciation.

  
  


* * *

Neal was pretty despondent in the days following Richards’ letter. He refused all visitors besides Mozzie and June and tried to focus his mind on getting better. There was plenty to keep him busy, like the grueling exercises he learned from the physical and occupational therapists that came by. Everyone seemed to be optimistic that there would be no lasting effects from the stab wound. He would get the surgery stitches out soon and even his broken arm was behaving.

The doctors and specialists were all about goals. What did he want to accomplish, how hard was he willing to work to get himself there. It was hard not to feel like a helpless child when everyone fell into “doctor” mode like that, but Neal was willing to look past it. They were only trying to help. So he did the exercises and tried to get himself to a place where he could physically climb up the stairs up to his guest room at the top of the house. Walk up them on his own two feet so he could sleep in his own damn bed.

That was brick number one. The goal he would use to help him manage all the rest.

But no matter how hard Neal pushed himself during the day, how utterly exhausted he made himself by the time the lights were dimmed and he was expected to sleep, the nightmares still came. They visited him frequently now and Neal found himself retreating further into his own mind, even though he didn’t mean to. Mozzie had been trying to lift his spirits by getting him up out of bed and into his wheelchair as much as possible. He would push Neal around the first floor until he engaged in conversation again. 

Their favorite spot ended up being a four seasons room at the back of the house that overlooked a small garden. The vegetation was dead and frost covered everything, but there was so much sunlight at times Neal hardly cared. Mozzie would find the biggest patch of light in the room and wheel Neal over to it, letting him soak up as much of the rays as possible and for as long as his injuries would allow. 

It was easy to push thoughts of the prison away under that sun, to imagine getting back to a normal life. The world had kept on spinning even though he’d almost died and Neal was starting to feel that itch to get back in it again. He still had a long way to go. Pneumonia and broken bones didn’t disappear overnight, but spring was on its way and Neal was determined not to miss any of it. As soon as he was strong enough he would try and convince his doctors to let Mozzie wheel him over to the park. He could do it. Maybe he would even change that to goal number one.

But there was still the matter of Leech. And every time Neal was reminded of that man, he sank deeper into his doldrums. The invocation of that name always got him thinking back on the prison and of Smith’s cold hands around his throat. That’s when the nightmares were the worst. On the bad days when the sun disappeared behind the clouds and left him to his own devices.

Neal had awoken in the dead of night on several occasions, screaming and calling out for Peter, his sheets soaked with perspiration. One of the nurses would always show up a few moments later to try to convince him all over again that he was home and safe. But Smith’s face would stay there at the forefront of his mind while his sheets were being changed and Neal fumbled for the buttons of his ruined shirt. Half the time the nurse would have to help him out of it, his hands shaking so badly he could barely grip the buttons. Tremors would run up and down his spine as the cool air hit his sweat damped skin. Neal always tried to remind himself not to look down at the damage on his chest once the shirt was removed. But he always forgot. 

The horrible bruises covering his torso were slowly turning sickly shades of yellow and green. There was still a bandage covering his shoulder wound and the place where the doctors had inserted the chest tube. Daily reminders of the horrible things Smith had done to him. Evidence of torture and his swan dive off the Broolyn Bridge. When he added all of his injuries up in his head like this, it was easy to feel disconnected. Like everything had happened to someone else, a completely different person. It didn’t seem right that he had survived. Smith had nearly killed him, left him on a ventilator, while Richards sat back and watched it all happen. He should be dead. So no wonder he was having so much trouble coming to grips with what had been done to him.

Neal decided it was best to just try and forget for the time being. He needed to focus on recovering his strength and getting off the antibiotics and the pain medications. He would deal with the past some other time.

But just like every other decision in his life lately, facing the past ended up being on someone else’s terms. 

After one particularly difficult night, Neal awoke to find Peter seated in the chair beside his bed. It had been 4 days since Neal had last seen him and the agent looked about as terrible as Neal felt. There were dark shadows beneath his eyes and he looked like he’d lost some weight. It was a reminder to Neal that Leech was still out there and that Peter would not rest until that bastard was caught and behind bars. That was just how the FBI agent operated, especially when it came to those who threatened the people he loved.

Neal was about to ask the agent where he had been for the past few days and how things were going with Leech when he realized the portable cart the nurses used to organize his meds for the day had been cleared of all its clutter and rolled up beside Peter’s chair. There was a little tape recorder set up on it, along with a pitcher of water and an empty cup.

“Oh.”

So it was time then. The past could no longer be ignored or swept under the rug to be dealt with later.

Neal glanced over at the tape recorder and then back to Peter. The agent’s face was unreadable but he seemed to be waiting for Neal to give some kind of sign that it was ok to proceed. 

Truth was, Neal had been both dreading and expecting this moment for some time now. And actually, he was kind of surprised it hadn’t happened earlier (sooner?). He had yet to give an official statement to anyone about what had happened - Peter included. The right time had just never presented itself. Not even back in the hospital when Peter had regaled him of all the things his friends had done to track him down and bring him home.

It seemed fitting that they would do this next part together. Neal wasn't sure he’d have been able to with anyone else - like some other agent assigned to the case because Peter was too close to all this. And maybe Neal would still have to. With a case like Leech’s, the bureau would want to dot it’s I’s and cross it’s T’s eventually. But for now, it was just Peter and Neal. The way it always should have been. No prison bars or demented DOJ representatives standing in their way. Just two friends who understood one another and were willing to listen. Really listen.

That was what Peter was promising now, in that way all good friends do. He was offering to listen. To give Neal the opportunity to tell his side of the story without judgement or interruption. There would be no ulterior motives to worry about, no clarifying questions. Just a general need to understand and the willingness to stick around after and help pick up the pieces.

Neal couldn’t help but wonder if he would be able to get through it all. If his strength would even hold out. The desire was there. He wanted nothing more than to tell Peter all of it, every gory detail. Spill his guts so that someone else out there would understand what he had just gone through. 

Right now the narrative was scattered. Neal had given bits and pieces of it out to the people who needed to know what had happened. But up until now, no one had ever asked him to sit down and try to gather it all up into one cohesive storyline. One that started from the beginning and took them all the way through to the end. This was going to take everything Neal had left, as well as strain the tenuous hold he had on his physical and mental health.

But he needed to at least try and Peter was right to ask it of him. He imagined it would help them both in the long run, though it would hurt like hell. Just like their moment back in the hospital when he had promised Peter forgiveness by simply squeezing his hand.

“Ok,” he said quietly, and Peter reached over to switch on the recorder.

“Would you state your name for the record?”

“Neal George Caffrey.”

Peter’s initial questions felt cold and impersonal and were delivered with very little emotion, but that was to be expected. An official statement was just that,  _ official _ . The opening was meant to be bland and boring. The real questions would come later when Peter asked him to take him through everything that had happened, and in his own words.

It was easy to forget about the recorder after that. Neal focused all of his energy on giving as clear and concise a timeline as possible, trying to disconnect himself from the words that were pouring out of his mouth. The gruesome details he knew he had to add so Peter would be sure to get everything he needed the first time around and they would never have to do this again. Or if they did, then it would be on their own terms rather than out of necessity. 

When it was all over, several hours had passed and the pitcher of water on Neal’s table was empty. His throat felt nearly raw, but they’d done it. Both Peter and Neal had survived and he actually felt a bit better for it. There was a lightness inside his chest that hadn’t been there before. Space - like things had been rearranged to make room for something else. Something that was new and not drenched in blood. 

Peter leaned over and switched off the recorder. The two men regarded each other in silence for the longest time. Neal too exhausted to even form coherent thoughts and Peter apparently at a loss for words. A clock ticked away on the wall above their heads and the distant sounds of jazz could be heard playing from another room in the house.

Neal half expected Peter to ask him for forgiveness again. Something he’d already done but was more than willing to reaffirm if that’s what the agent needed - what would help him sleep at night - because Peter was obviously not sleeping. But the agent just kept silent and started gathering up his things a moment later.

“Leech?” Neal asked as Peter tossed his tape recorder into his briefcase and snapped the lid shut. The lines of exhaustion on his face seemed to deepen as he came up to the side of Neal’s bed.

“We’re close,” he promised before squeezing Neal’s hand with a sad smile and walking out of the room. Neal watched him go, trying to decide if he should feel happy or worried about how they’d just left things. 

Neal wasn’t about to call Peter back in and demand a full update or anything. Mozzie was still helping with the investigation and had been keeping him in the loop. But he had been expecting… well, he wasn’t sure. Some other reaction from his handler that wasn’t stoney silence and monosyllabic replies. Questions, maybe? A conversation about how he was handling the fact that Neal had just taken him through every single horrific detail of his captivity. 

Maybe Peter just needed more time. Neal might have felt lighter after laying it all out on the table like that, but perhaps Peter needed to process things differently. To adjust to the new weight Neal had just asked him to carry. 

Was that why he was feeling so light? Because for the first time since all this began, he wasn’t the only one carrying around the weight of what had been done to him? Maybe that was the key to everything. Not to retreat into himself and to let the memories bury him, but to open up to his friends and let them carry a little of the burden for once. 

That was something Robert Leech had been getting wrong from the beginning. He’d swooped into their lives with his illusions of power and influence, never thinking for a moment that someone might stand up and say no. 

Oh how quickly those illusions had shattered after that. 

Poor Leech and his crudely constructed house of cards, held together by nothing more than false bravado, purchased loyalty, and good old fashioned scare tactics. 

Men like Leech were all the same. They constantly underestimated the tenacity of the human spirit or men like Peter Burke. Friendship and loyalty,  _ real _ loyalty, these were things men like Leech had never experienced in their own lives. Altruism was just a word in the dictionary. Well, until those men realized how much power the human spirit held, how unwilling people were to just roll over and take it when one of their own was threatened, well then the good guys were always going to win. 

Robert Leech was on the run and Neal knew Peter would stop at nothing to bring him down. And as soon as he was back on his feet, Neal would be helping. Leech had tried to shove him in a box and bury him forever. But Neal was a survivor. He would do whatever it took to recover from this and get back out there with Peter. The price of that freedom might have been high, but it was one he was willing to pay.


	29. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Change of plans. This is the final chapter. It just felt more like the natural progression of the story and the best way to end it. I hope you enjoy.

Peter Burke stood in shadow before the two way mirror and studied the balding man chained to the table on the other side of the glass. He looked pale and drawn under the harsh overhead lights of the interrogation room. Yet even in chains Robert Leech was trying to exude an air of confidence and superiority. But the facade was proving impossible to maintain with his nervous twitches and the shackles that rattled every time he moved. 

“You don’t have to do this you know,” Don Murphy said as he came up to stand beside Peter.

“I know.”

“I’ve got plenty of guys who would be more than willing to take a crack at this guy.”

“I know that, too.”

“Then why does it have to be you, Petey?”

Peter Burke looked away from the glass and over at his friend. There was nothing but concern in the Detective’s eyes. The same concern Elizabeth had shown that morning when Peter had tried to explain to her exactly what he was about to do and why it was so important. 

Peter smiled, though it hardly reached his eyes. “Because that man in there tried to murder me and my friends.”

It was quite possibly the most honest answer Peter had given to anyone since receiving the call that Robert Leech was back in New York. Don seemed to understand this. He also seemed to understand that Peter was no longer willing or able to discuss the matter further. The detective nodded and heaved a dramatic sigh.

Silence fell once again and Peter went back to watching Leech through the glass. Every so often the man's beady little eyes would flick over to the mirror. For one awful moment, Peter would imagine that Leech was staring straight at him. But the moment would always pass after Peter reminded himself that Leech couldn’t really see him. The man was only looking at his own pitiful reflection. He probably didn't even know Peter was there.

“So I heard your takedown was pretty spectacular,” Don said after a while.

Peter really did smile then. “You should have seen it. We took him down right there in the middle of JFK. I think that asshole actually thought he’d be able to leave the country.”

There were some memories of all this Peter wouldn’t be trying to forget any time soon. Like how it felt to watch as Robert Leech was taken down by five heavily armed security guards. Or the sheer exhilaration of racing across town a few hours later to burst through Neal’s door and tell everyone gathered that it was finally over.

_ “We got him.” _

_ “Oh thank god,” June said. _

_ “‘Bout time,” Mozzie muttered. _

_ But Neal’s reaction was the one Peter actually cared about. _

_ “So it’s over?” his CI had asked.  _

_ Peter could practically see the weight lifting off his friend’s shoulders. The worry disappearing from his face. That mischievous little spark of his trying it’s best to reignite itself behind those tired eyes. _

_ “It’s over.” _

If only those words had been true… 

The manhunt for Leech might be over, but there was still the small matter of convicting him. The evidence Peter and his team had gathered was damning. It all sat in the thick file Peter had brought with him, carefully tabulated with brightly colored sticky notes that marked all the important places. The evidence he would use to show Robert Leech the good guys had truly won the day. 

But Peter was still nervous. You could never tell what a jury was going to do and Robert Leech didn’t strike him as the kind of man who would plead guilty. 

But who knew. Maybe once Peter confronted him with all the evidence... well, maybe then Leech would finally cave and give them a full confession. Peter just needed to have faith. Something he was in short supply of ever since the system had failed Neal so spectacularly. Failed them all, really. Peter doubted he would ever be able to fully trust in the bureau or the Department of Justice again. He would take this newly formed attempt at faith and give it to his friends. To the people who worked for him and with him. The agents he trusted with his own life and who knew now that they could trust him with theirs. They were the ones who had tracked down and destroyed every single resource Robert Leech might have tried to tap to pay for his sleazy defense team. Or, god forbid, bankroll another attempt on Neal’s life. They were the real heroes who scared the man on the other side of that glass into abandoning his last ditch effort at exacting his revenge on Neal. Without them, Robert Leech would probably be on a plane right now and headed to some other country with no extradition treaty with the US. Peter would not be standing here now, about to emerge from the shadows and go into that harshly lit interrogation room to finally confront the man who had tried to destroy so many lives. Still could possibly, if they’d missed anything. 

But that all came back around to the faith Peter Burke was trying to have. Faith in a system he no longer trusted. A system they could not afford to fail again. It was one hell of a slippery slope.

Well there was one thing Peter knew for certain. Robert Leech needed to go away for good, and into a hole as deep and as dark as the one he’d tried to put Neal in. Peter would be the one to put him there. It was only fitting. An eye for an eye. A life for a life. He no longer cared how callous that sounded. Leech had lived up to his namesake. He really was a leech, and one that had somehow managed to hollow Peter out and make him cold.

“You sure about this?” Don asked him quietly. 

Peter wasn’t sure how to respond. The answer to the detective’s question was both yes and no. Yes because he was ready to say his piece and start putting all this behind him. No because every time he forced himself to face what happened, the memories of Neal in the hospital came back to him tenfold. 

Peter knew his experiences were nothing compared to the horrors Neal had faced at the hands of the Marshals or in that prison with Smith, but that didn’t mean he was unaffected. Peter could still remember the horror of those first few moments alone with Neal in that hospital room, his friend so close to death he’d needed machines to do the work of living for him. The flesh memory of Neal’s impossibly warm skin, the sight of the tubes protruding from gaping holes in his side, those long hours spent in the ICU wondering if his friend would ever wake up. 

Sometimes Peter could even look down at his hands and imagine they were still covered in blood. Neal’s blood.

Peter jerked his head back up when he realized Don was watching him closely. He’d been staring at his outstretched hands without even noticing. He let them fall back to his sides.

He was ready. 

Don lead him out of the room with no further comment and over to the interrogation room door. It was locked and Peter tried to center himself as the detective fished for the keys. 

He really was ready. He was also no longer afraid.

Peter never would have admitted it out loud, but he’d spent the better part of last night just lying there in bed beside Elizabeth and staring up at the ceiling. Thinking about how terrified he was of this very moment as he watched the lights from passing cars paint strange shapes on the walls. But perhaps fear wasn’t the right name for what he’d been feeling. Maybe it was more like a general anxiety over the things he couldn’t possibly predict, no matter how hard he tried. Leech had sucker punched him once already. Peter was worried that he might try again.

“Last chance,” Don warned, his hand on the knob.

Peter pulled in a breath. “Do it.”

Despite his conflicted feelings, it was time for this to end. Neal deserved as much. Hell, so did Peter. So did everyone who’d helped them get this far. Mozzie, Elizabeth, Don, and June. Rosa with her endless cups of coffee, the paramedics who followed them to the prison, Sheriff Martin and that SWAT team leader Peter could never remember the name of. They all deserved closure, and Peter and Neal deserved to be able to close their eyes at night and not have to worry about what Leech might be up to. Or to wake up the next day and wonder if today was the day they would find out.

Don pushed the door open and Peter walked confidently into the room. There wasn't much to it. Just the table Leech was shackled to and two extra chairs on the other side of the table. Beady little eyes snapped up the moment Peter was through the door. 

The rumpled brown suit Robert Leech wore did nothing to improve his already pale complexion. He looked nervous and jumpy, though he was still trying to act like he wasn’t. The man before Peter was a pale imitation of the one who had sat across the conference room table from him so many months ago and meticulously picked apart every op Neal had ever been involved with. Peter was going to enjoy turning the tables on Leech for once.

Peter finished his trek across the room and pulled out a chair. The metal legs screeched across the tiles, making a hideous noise that made Leech jump. Peter didn’t react. Just wrinkled his nose up in disgust, set the file he was carrying down onto the table and took his seat. 

When he was ready, Peter folded his hands over the thick file and finally looked up and met the eyes of the man who had nearly destroyed Neal’s life. The man who stared back at Peter with his glasses perched precariously at the end of his nose. The one Peter wanted nothing more than to throw against the wall right now and beat him until his knuckles bled, or Don pulled him off. But that wasn’t what Peter was here for. Peter was here to show Robert Leech just how screwed he really was, how deep that hole Peter was going to bury him in really went. How small and utterly insignificant he was now that his pedestal was broken.

“If you’ve come here for a confession…” Leech began, those beady little black eyes of his narrowing. 

Peter put up a hand. “Let me just stop you right there, Robert,” he said and Leech’s lips drew back into a sneer at the use of his first name. Peter ignored it. “I don’t need a confession from you. I just want to show you something.”

Peter went to the first tab of his file and flipped it open. He took out the photo of Spencer Abrams - the same photo the Marshals had used to try and get a rise out of Neal - and placed it on the table in front of Leech. 

The man looked down at the photograph and scowled. “Is that supposed to be some kind of threat?”

Peter smiled. “Oh no, Robert. I just wanted to make sure you saw the results of your handiwork. This is your associate, in case you were wondering. Spencer Abrams. Recognize him?” Peter inched the photo a little closer to Leech’s folded arms. “I hear they had to scoop his entrails up off the pavement with a shovel.”

Peter left the photo where it sat and moved over to the next tab in his file. From behind that he pulled out a second photograph. This one was of Jeremiah Park. Or at least what was left of him after Don put a bullet through the side of his head. There was no mistaking the bits of brains that had been splattered across the floor. 

This time, Leech looked away.

“Oh come on Robert. Don’t be shy! This is the guy you hired to do all your dirty work for you, remember? In fact, this is probably what he would have done to me and my friends if we hadn't gotten to him first.” 

But Leech was still refusing to look at the photographs. Peter stood up suddenly and swept them from the table. He slammed his hands down onto the cold metal surface. 

He had Leech’s attention then.

“I want to know why,” he said, voice shaky. “I want to know how a respected member of the Department of Justice turns to serial killers like Jeremiah Park to go after innocent men.”

The corner’s of Leech’s mouth curled up into a rancid smile that could have curdled dairy. “You think Neal Caffrey is innocent? He’s a criminal and has been acting like one ever since you let him out of prison. Right there under your nose, only your office was too stupid to see it. You’re a disgrace to the badge, Agent Burke.”

“The only disgrace in this room is you, Robert,” Peter said, working hard to control his emotions and not do something he’d later regret, “You threw it all away, and for what? Revenge on Neal Caffrey for stealing some artwork from you?”

“I was the goddamn director of White Collar!” Leech roared, trying to get up from his chair and into Peter’s face, but his restraints made it impossible. “Neal Caffrey does not belong out on the streets or working for  _ my _ division. He belongs behind bars. And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll put him back there the first chance you get.”

“Neal’s not going back to prison, Robert,” Peter said with a sneer of his own. “In fact, that’s one of the things I came here to tell you today. You see, the FBI seized some pretty serious assets from this asshole who’s about to get life in prison and I fully intend to make sure every one of those assets gets used to expand that work release program you love so much. So you see, in the end, it all works out. You go away for the rest of your miserable life and I make sure all those convicts you despise so much get a second chance. All thanks to you.”

“You wouldn’t,” Leech said, letting the first hint of fear enter his eyes.

“I can and I will, because after what you pulled, you’re done for.”

Peter yanked his chair back in and his file open to it’s last tab. He started setting out a series of photographs he’d been hoping he’d never have to look at again. Ones that still gave him nightmares.

“You wouldn’t believe how quickly your allies jumped ship when they realized what a scumbag you are,” he continued, slamming photograph after photograph down in front of Leech. Neal’s stab wound, every single one of the bruises covering his body, the x-rays of his broken bones and even one of his lungs, the inside of his cell and the conditions of the prison infirmary they’d found him in. He didn’t stop until he reached the last one of Neal’s bruised and battered face. 

“But that nephew of yours? I gotta say, his confession was the one that really surprised me. And he confessed to everything, Robert. Just before he threw you under the bus.”

Leech squirmed in his seat, his dark eyes shifting nervously. Peter scooped the picture of Spencer Abrams from off the floor and placed it down on top of everything else. 

“Or should I say under the truck.”

Leech was sweating now and Peter knew that his message had been received. It was time to put an end to all of this once and for all. To close the book on Robert Leech.

“It’s over Robert,” Peter said as he collected all the photographs and tucked them back into his file. “You didn’t kill me and you didn’t kill Neal. And now you’re going to rot in hell just like all those other men you sent to your nephew.”

Peter rose from his chair. Don was already holding open the door. Robert Leech remained quiet, staring at the one photograph Peter had left behind on the table. It was the one of Spencer Abrams.

“You’re going to have to convict me first,” Leech called out. One last parting shot aimed directly into the center of all Peter’s fears. He tried to keep his face a mask of calm as he turned around.

“Do you want to know how we eventually tracked you down?” 

Leech just stared at him, his face stormy. 

“I used a CI. Can you believe it? A criminal you would have rather seen put behind bars is going to be the one to put you away. Now I’d call that poetic, wouldn’t you? You think about that over your Prison Surprise tonight. I hear that’s what they’re serving for dinner over at Rikers.”

Peter turned on his heel and stalked out of the room. The urge to glance over his shoulder and see how Leech reacted to this last bit of news was strong, but Peter resisted. He focused instead on hiding the limp that still crept up on him from time to time thanks to Jeremiah’s scalpel, refusing to show any sign of weakness until the door to the interrogation room was closed and he had to put a hand on a wall to keep from falling over.

“Holy shit,” he muttered.

“You okay over there, Petey?” Don asked, appearing at his elbow.

Peter kept his hand on the wall as he tried to reign in his rampaging heartbeat. “Nothing a little fresh air wouldn't help,” he finally admitted. “And don’t call me Petey.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Don said, rolling his eyes. “Sorry there  _ Agent _ Burke. Why are you Feds alway so stuffy anyway?”

“Because we have to deal with people like  _ that _ every day,” Peter said, inclining his head towards the interrogation room.

“Fair enough,” Don chuckled. He backed away, apparently no longer worried that Peter might keel over at any moment. “Are you going to be ok? Do you want me to walk with you out to your car?”

“No, that’s ok,” Peter said. “I’ve got someone waiting for me.”

Tucking his file up under his arm, Peter said his goodbyes to Don. The old friends shook hands warmly and promised to get together soon. The case that had brought them back together after so many years might have been a horrible one, but Peter was glad he’d gotten to reconnect with his old friend. And he really did mean it when he promised to call Don and Rosa for a dinner date later in the week. Something good had to come from all this.

Peter made his way out of the precinct and into the bright Manhattan sunshine. He tried not to think of Robert Leech’s parting words as he turned his face into the cool spring breeze that greeted him at the door like some excited puppy. Peter filled his lungs with fresh air and glanced over at the car he’d left illegally parked in front of the police station. A familiar figure was leaning against it, eyes closed as they basked in the warm sunlight.

“All set?” Neal asked as soon as he spotted Peter approaching. 

He smiled. “All set.”

Neal was still trying to put on weight but the bounce was back in his step as he pushed away from the car.

“You got it off,” Peter noted, nodding towards Neal’s arm. His CI lifted up the arm in question and wiggled his fingers.

“Just this morning. Good as new.”

“It’s a good look for you, Neal.”

“As good as this?” Neal asked, pulling up his pant leg to reveal his brand new anklet

“You figured out how to get out of that one yet?” Peter laughed.

“Oh hell no,” Neal replied, letting the pant leg drop. “I’m never giving anyone from the FBI or DOJ any reason to look in my way ever again.”

Peter couldn’t blame him, though he was kind of surprised Neal hadn’t put up more of a fight over having to wear it again. Apparently almost getting killed by a rogue DOJ agent wasn’t enough to commute an entire sentence. At least the bureau was willing to consider Neal’s captivity as time served. Peter would push for more later, but for now, it was enough.

Neal glanced up at the precinct. “So… how’d it go in there?”

“Oh, you know,” Peter shrugged. “Wanna go grab some lunch?”

But Neal wasn’t having it.

“It was awful, ok?” he admitted.

“Then why did you do it?”

“I don’t know, Neal,” Peter sighed as he searched for his car keys. He nearly accused Neal of swiping them before remembering Neal had been dropped off at the precinct after his doctor’s appointment.

“Yes you do,” his friend pushed. “Come on Peter. This is me. I’d like to know what you said to my would be executioner.

“Oh don’t be so dramatic,” Peter said, finally finding his keys. “That kind of talk only works on Reed, you know that.” 

But Peter could tell that deflection and jokes were not going to be enough to dissuade Neal this time.

“Somewhere else, ok?” he tried instead. “I’m sick of looking at this place.” 

Neal seemed to be fine with that and the two men climbed into the car. Peter drove them over to Washington Square Park. Something about getting shot there made him want to visit the place again. Not to remember, but to remind himself that it was still a beautiful spot and that Jeremiah Park had not taken it from him. He was all about reclaiming his space these days. Park had nearly taken a kidney, Peter wouldn’t let him have his damn park.

The two men settled themselves onto a bench beside the fountain with sandwiches they had picked up on the way. There were no couples making out in it this time. There was just the sound of the water and wind in the trees.

“How’s therapy going?” Peter asked after they had eaten in silence for a while. 

Neal set the soda he’d been drinking down on the bench between them. Peter noticed he’d been doing a few things out of the ordinary lately, like maybe not eating the healthiest of foods or partaking in a little more wine than was normal for him. It was nothing that worried Peter in the slightest. It was more of a casual observance that Neal was living life a little more fully these days. Doing more of the things he loved. Peter was fine with that.

“It’s going, I guess,” Neal answered after awhile. “It’s helping me with the nightmares, so there’s that.”

Peter nodded, recalling the few times he’d been there when Neal had awoken from sleep, thrashing and screaming and nearly pulling out his IV’s. He was still a bit skittish around people and often flinched whenever Peter forgot to be careful and made some sudden movement. It was getting better, but he knew the flashbacks and the PTSD bothered Neal. Peter rarely made him talk about it, even though the therapist had told him it might help.

Neal’s physical injuries were all healing nicely. His cast had just come off and if everything else went according to plan, he would be released from desk duty soon and be back at Peter’s side in the field, where he belonged. He was even back in his old guest room at June’s and smiled a lot more these days. It was refreshing and contiguous. Further proof that Robert Leech had failed miserably in all aspects of his plan to destroy the man seated on the bench beside him. The one Peter had watched overcome unimaginable odds just to get to a place where he could come out like this and share a lunch with Peter in the park. When he let himself put things in perspective like that, any threat Robert Leech still posed seemed to evaporate in an instant.

And speaking of that cockroach...

“You still haven’t told me what happened with Leech,” Neal reminded him.

Peter sighed and balled up the wrapper to his sandwich, tossing it at a nearby garbage can and making a spectacular shot.

“I think you missed your calling,” Neal said when he turned back around. “But it still doesn’t save you from having to answer.”

“Alright fine,” Peter finally caved, “though I have no idea why you want to know.” 

Neal listened quietly as Peter ran through all the details of his conversation with Leech. He tried to include as much of it as possible, but there were a few things he left out.

“And do you feel better?” his CI asked once Peter was done.

“Not in the way I thought I would,” he answered honestly and Neal nodded.

“I think…” Neal started but then paused.

“What?” Peter prodded. “What do you think?”

Neal ran a hand over the stubble on his chin. “Men like Leech… I knew so many of them growing up. They were all so wrapped up in their own righteous indignation that they could never see what they were doing was wrong or hurting other people. I think… I kinda feel sorry for the guy.”

“Well I don’t,” Peter snapped, scowling at the mere thought.

“Don’t get me wrong, Peter. I’m glad he got caught. He deserves to go away after what he did to me. I guess what I'm trying to say is, I forgive him? Or at least, I’m not going to let him ruin my life anymore.”

Peter mulled that one over for a while. He was pretty sure he understood it from a Neal Caffrey perspective. Just maybe not from a Peter Burke one. If Peter thought they would let him, he would have volunteered to be the one to throw Robert Leech into his cell and throw away the key. He was going to hold onto this for a very long time. Neal was a better man than him in that regard.

“Do you think I’ll have to testify?” Neal asked quietly, throwing Peter off guard.

He let out a breath that seemed to deflate him. “What would you do if I said maybe?”

“Start watching courtroom dramas on TV, I guess,” Neal answered. “Get myself ready. I hear the local access channel runs old episodes of Perry Mason.”

Peter started to laugh at that. He couldn’t help himself. And once he got going, he just couldn’t stop. Neal was quickly pulled in and before long both men were laughing so hard their faces were red and there were tears streaming down their cheeks. By that point they were mostly laughing at each other rather than the stupid joke Neal had just made. 

It felt good. It felt right. Maybe even normal.

“I miss this,” Peter said once he was finally able to get control of himself again. He even reached out to clap Neal lightly on the shoulder. His good shoulder. The physical therapists were still working on the other one. Neal didn’t flinch away. Not this time.

“Me too.”

“Convince those doctors of yours that you’re ready to go back to work and then we can have this every day if you want.”

“Your mouth to god’s ears,” Neal smiled.

Peter let go of Neal’s shouler and slapped his thighs with his hands. “How ‘bout it then, partner. You ready to get out of here?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

They discarded their trash in the bins and walked out of the park in companionable silence. When they reached the car again Peter turned to Neal. “Hey! I have something for you.”

He used the keyfob to pop the trunk and then pulled a very dusty, very dented looking black fedora out of the trunk.

“Is that…” Neal murmured, taking the hat from Peter and running his hands loveling over the brim. The long awaited reunion made Peter smile.

“Do you remember that shitty Ford Tempo Jones checked out of impound?”

“Vaguely,” Neal replied, his long fingers inspecting every rip and new depression the hat had acquired during their forced separation.

“You must have left it in the back or something. It nearly went to the junkyard along with that crappy car. I saved it from the trash compactor.”

Peter watched as Neal reached inside the hat. After a few careful adjustments, it was back to normal. The fedora was still ripped and covered in dust, but there was no denying it was back to its original shape. Just like some of the other people in Peter’s life.

“I don’t suppose you’d ever want to wear it again, but I wanted to give it back to you anyway. I meant to a long time ago. It just never felt like the right moment.”

Neal was quiet for a moment before he looked back up and over at Peter. When he did, there was a line of moisture tracking down one cheek. He wiped it away before speaking. “I don’t know what to say, Peter. This is perfect. Thank you for bringing it back to me.”

Neal did a few impressive flips with the hat and then settled it back onto his head. When he pulled the brim down ever so slightly in that old familiar way of his, Peter nearly started tearing up himself.

It was like the final piece of some puzzle. The closing chapter of a book. The last words spoken by a narrator before the volume was closed and set back on the shelf to gather dust and be forgotten. That was fine with Peter. Robert Leech was behind bars and Peter had found his faith again. Neal was getting stronger by the day and would be coming back to work as soon as his doctors cleared him. Life was moving forward again and Peter was no longer trying to play catch up. 

“Where to now, partner?” he asked as they climbed back into the car and Peter started up the engine.

“How about home?” Neal suggested as he rolled down his window a bit and turned on the radio.

Peter smiled brightly. “Home it is, then.”

Fin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was a pretty wild ride, wouldn't you say? Thanks to everyone who commented and followed. I hope you enjoyed this story as much as I did.
> 
> If you haven't already, would you please consider leaving me a review and letting me know what you thought of the fic? Comments are like oxygen to us fanfic writers.
> 
> Happy Whumping and I'll see you on the next one!


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